Digging My Own Grave
by Sien13
Summary: Oh, don't I know, I'm just digging my own grave...won't someone else please save myself from me? (Inspired by 'Digging My Own Grave,' a song by Thrice.)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I realize I forgot to add in the horizontal lines...oopsie! Sorry guys. It's fixed now, and it'll be done in all future chapters. Sorry again!

* * *

Dean Winchester was a raging alcoholic and he knew it. If there was ever one thing he'd learned from his bastard of a father, it had been that if you had problems, a decent amount of liquor could make them just vanish for a time, leaving you with only the good things until the effects wore off, and then it was just rinse and repeat. When he was younger he had seriously doubted the truth behind those words, having seen firsthand the abusive mess it turned John into when he had more than a couple of drinks, but it hadn't taken him long to figure it all out, and by the time he and Sam were finally pulled from that house, he'd already developed quite a problem. It'd started as a way to temporarily forget the bitter words drilled into his mind and to ignore the aching pain, but things steadily got worse and over the course of time it'd turned into a complete dependency on the stuff. Even when they moved in with Bobby he couldn't kick the habit, because that just brought back the years of hurt he'd been slowly drowning and he couldn't do that. The old guy never knew, since Dean was careful never to take too much and would always wait until he was out or asleep—he couldn't be woken up even if a train drove straight through his living room, Dean swore—but it'd never just been his secret. Sam knew, had actually known for quite some time, and it seemed to be his life goal to persuade him to stop, to talk to someone about the things he was dealing with.

He'd never been very good with telling his precious little brother no, so he'd relented and told Bobby, who had in turn helped him find someone he could talk to instead of yelling at him like he'd been expecting him to. It was what John would have done, if he'd given two shits about them in the first place. For a while, the weekly visits to the therapist worked. He could tell someone all the things he'd been locking up without fearing that they'd judge him or that somehow his father would find out, and it was like a ten ton weight had been lifted off his chest and he could finally just _breathe. _The guy was nice to him but never acted sympathetic, which made him so very easy to talk to and Dean was thankful for it. It helped him way more than he'd ever thought it would, and he was able to stop relying so much on the strength of the alcohol, something that of course made Sam and Bobby all the more thrilled. He never quite let go of it completely, still indulging in a drink every now and then for the hell of it, but hey, at least he wasn't using it to dull the pain anymore. Life was looking up after all that time spent in a literal hell.

But of course, things for Dean could never stay in the positive. It seemed to be life's main goal to just fuck everything up for him with the cruelest of twists, some of which were easier to ignore. Flunking out of college due to depression, losing his job to some douche with a degree, his girlfriend being a cheater...those were all little inconveniences, as his therapist had told him once, and he could rather easily look past them. There had been one thing, though, that took everything he'd created for himself and just threw it out the window. He'd made a purpose for himself but suddenly that was all being ripped away from him and it was his own damn fault. It was the first realization he'd made when he woke up in that hospital room after the accident, bandaged and bruised, and the only thing he'd been able to think since then was that it should have been him, that it hadn't been fair at all for that to happen. _It__'__s not your fault, _Dean's therapist had told him, but oh, it so was. Everything was, as John had told him all those years ago, and this certainly wasn't exempt from that. It hadn't taken long for him to fall back into that downward spiral he'd narrowly escaped before, but this time, he welcomed it and there was nobody to pull him away again. Even if there had been, he'd never have listened. Dean stopped going to therapy, stopped talking to any of his friends and became withdrawn from the world, and he'd taken to the bottle again, this time worst than the last.

There was only so much liquor at the house, though, so Dean found himself spending more and more time at the local bar, a decent enough place that had a wide variety of wonderful poisons. It began as just a weekly trip but slowly increased until he was there practically every day, aside from Sundays because that was when it was closed. It was a consistent cycle that went on for a number of years before it finally caught up to him. Bobby had been expressing his concerns for a while, telling Dean that he was going to make himself sick, but he'd just brushed him off and honestly, he didn't _care _if he became ill. It was less than the punishment he rightly deserved. That guilt from what he'd caused had never once left him or dwindled away; if anything, it'd grown far worse, to the point that he was almost considering not waiting for death to come to him. He had nothing to live for, anyway, right? What was the point? His family tried to convince him otherwise, of course, and it was actually during one of those talks that his habits finally came back to bite him in the ass.

"Come on, let's have another drink," Dean pleaded, picking up his near-empty glass of whiskey and downing the remaining sip. _Or maybe three. _He'd developed such a tolerance that it took a hell of a lot more to get him even buzzed, so three would be next to nothing for him, maybe just enough to dull his senses a bit more and get rid of the damned headache that had settled in about half an hour ago. Bobby, who had taken up his usual seat across from him in the booth, raised an eyebrow at him skeptically, and Dean just rolled his eyes. The guy rarely drank anymore, maybe because he was still trying to get Dean to quit, not that it really worked. This was what he wanted—to either die right there, or to drink himself into a stupor until his time came and he received what he deserved. Why was that so hard for people to understand? "Oh, don't be a bore."

"I think you've had enough," Bobby told him seriously, leaning a bit further forward on the table, reaching out to take the glass away from him and ignoring the scowl he received. Oh well, it wasn't like Dean couldn't just order another drink from the bartender; he could have the glass if he really wanted the thing. That wasn't going to stop him. It hadn't so far, anyway. "You've been at this what, a good two years now?" Technically longer, since he'd started when he was about twelve, but he wasn't going to mention that because he really didn't think anyone aside from Sam and himself had ever known. He didn't want him to start insisting that he had caused some damage and forcing him to go to the hospital. Dean had always hated those places with a burning, fiery passion, and avoided visits at all costs. "You can't keep doing this to yourself...you're gonna do some real damage, Dean. I've seen it happen, it's not good. C'mon, we can get you help—"

Dean barked out a short laugh, shaking his head and coughing into his hand, a rather disgustingly wet sound. The weather was starting to turn quite bitter; maybe he was catching a cold or something? All the more reason for him to just not leave the nice, warm bar, he supposed. "I don't _want_ help, Bobby," he snapped, "from you or anyone else. We tried that shit once, remember? You saw how that one turned out." He gestured to himself with a dramatized sweep of his hand. Actually, it hadn't been the therapy that had made him turn to this; it'd just been his inability to cope with things like a normal human being would. Why he couldn't just go have a good cry and be fine was beyond him. "What I _want _is for you to butt out. You're not my father, so quit acting like you are damnit! It's my life; this is what I choose to do with it! I've got no reason to fight it anymore."

There was a long moment of pause after he'd shut his mouth, his harsh words clinging to the tense air between them. It was cruel, he knew that, and Bobby had never been anything but good to him and Sam, but it was just easier this way. If he disliked him, then he wouldn't be sad when Dean died. He wouldn't be leaving behind the kind of hurt that could destroy a person from the inside out, eating away at their very core until the darkness of death reached up to claim them, something that by that point was a mercy. It was a vicious cycle and Dean actually regretted saying he'd been swept up in it. As corrupt as his mind had become, some part of him still cared enough to be the last one to fall prey to such a thing. He'd go down without a fight, even if it meant everyone around him vanished one by one until there was nothing left, no loose ends that would have to tie themselves up.

Finally, Bobby spoke again, a defeated expression coming over his visage, his eyes revealing just how tired he really was. "You remind me of him now," he stated, and he didn't even have to say the name for Dean to know exactly who he was talking about: John Winchester. He'd been a good guy once, way back when, but the death of his wife, Dean and Sam's mother, had torn him up so badly that he'd turned to alcohol abuse, which in turn created the drunken bastard he'd come to know and love. Okay, maybe that whole love thing was bullshit, but it certainly was familiar. "After your mom, he just...gave up. I swear I've never seen a man so taken with the bottle before, but now there's you. Dean, I get that you're still torn up over this, but this is too far. You're becoming just like him..."

Dean almost couldn't believe his ears. He was becoming like _John? _No, _fuck _no. They were nothing alike! "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he hissed, curling his hands into tight fists and swallowing thickly, ignoring the way his stomach churned. "Comparing me to that—to that _bastard!_ I am nothing like him, nothing, you hear?!" He was nearly shouting now, pushing himself up on unsteady feet so that he could glare down at the older man, who just watched him warily as he swayed a little. He was tipsy, but he could get himself home without assistance. His lungs burned a bit, his throat feeling kind of unnaturally slick, and now all he wanted to do was get to a place where he could get some allergy and cold pills to avoid being bedridden. He wanted nothing to keep him from his goal anymore, neither person nor force of nature. "I'm—going home—_alone," _he growled when he could catch his breath between sickly sounding coughs, something that earned him concerned looks from more than just Bobby. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the whole bar was looking at him now. Maybe he'd find somewhere else to go. "And I don't...don't..."

For a second, he felt really lightheaded, reaching up with one hand to press his fingers to the center of his forehead like he would to ease a headache, watching the world around him spin violently. Maybe he was drunker than he'd originally thought? Three bottles of strong liquor _was _kind of a large amount, after all. He'd had more, though, so it just didn't explain why his knees buckled under him and sent him crashing to the ground as if they were just too weak now to support him. It didn't explain why he'd been feeling so sickly the past few months, or why he now felt like his insides were being twisted around a fork like they were nothing more than pliable noodles. And as he knelt there coughing, his eyes watering as he watched the floor below him become speckled with a brilliant red, some part of him knew that this was just it. That he'd finally pushed himself to his limits and couldn't go any further. It was a truth now he couldn't avoid, and one he actually welcomed. Dean was dying.

He was only vaguely aware of the voices around him, mutterings of his name vanishing as the blood rushed in his ears, his swimming vision distorting the images around him, but he could honestly say that he didn't really care. This was what he wanted, what he'd been trying to accomplish, though he'd never thought it would _hurt _so damn much. Everyone said death was peaceful, like a calming darkness that just overtook you, but that'd been a lie. Maybe he just didn't deserve the peaceful kind of leaving, though. It was like karma for what he'd caused all those years ago. His brother hadn't had an easy going, after all, so why had he ever thought his would be any different? Pain, suffering, a drawn out end...it was no less than what he'd earned himself. Dean welcomed unconsciousness, if only to escape all the concerned faces and overbearing noises for a brief moment, foolishly hoping that he just wouldn't have to wake up again and face the world that held no purpose for him anymore. There was nothing for him here; only his own personal Hell called his name now.

* * *

_Beep...beep...beep...beep...beep..._

The first thing to break through the nice, dark veils that had surrounded Dean was this high pitched beeping that he was pretty sure could only have come from the deepest pits of Hell itself. It was bearable at first, but before very long it was the most annoying thing he'd sworn he'd ever heard in his life, and no matter how hard he willed it to stop, it just wouldn't. His head was throbbing and that damned noise wasn't helping matters in the slightest. For the first time in forever Dean wished he had those stupid earmuffs his mother had gotten him ages ago so he could block everything out again. He didn't, though, so his next thought was that he'd have to stop it himself. It was probably his alarm; he didn't remember setting one, but he'd been awful drunk last night and couldn't remember a whole lot, so he'd probably gone home, set an alarm, and then crashed for the night. That'd certainly explain his headache as well. With much coercing, Dean finally managed to crack open his eyes, immediately squinting against the harsh white lights above him and groaning softly. Well, he _tried _to groan, though it really turned into more of a pathetic sound in the back of his throat.

His throat felt thick, like it'd been filled all the way down with some kind of molding plaster or something equally horrid that made it impossible for him to pull in a breath, no matter how he tried. It was weird, though, he didn't feel like he was suffocating; in fact, it almost seemed like something was pushing air into and sucking it out of his lungs. Now, Dean was far from an expert in anatomy, but he was pretty sure that something like that wasn't natural. Maybe he should have panicked about then, but his mind was far too muggy for him to think straight. He lolled his head to the side so he could find his alarm and shut off that damned beeping and then get a drink or something, but he only came face to face with a rather large machine, one with a little black screen and green line that went up sharply every time there was a beep. Suddenly panicked, he looked to his other side, where he was greeted with a couple IV drips and a machine that had this little compressor on the side, one that expanded with every forced exhale and compressed with every inhale... Holy shit, Dean was in the _hospital. _

He would rather be lit on fire than even set foot in one of these damned places. He knew that they were made to help people, but that didn't mean he had to like them in the least, so he just never had and now he was in one? How in hell had he ended up here? The last thing he remembered was being at the bar with Bobby, who was badgering him over quitting his addiction before it got out of hand..._oh. _The pieces suddenly started to fall into place, much in the same way they would with a hangover, but a lot quicker. He was here in this bed because he was _dying. _All these machines and tubes hooked into him, they were just there because he'd destroyed himself far enough to land himself here. While he knew there was probably good reason for that, he just wanted out, so he set to quickly unhooking anything he could reach. He pulled out IVs with a grimace, watching the blood instantly bead over the little holes they left, and then removed those stupid little sensor patches from his chest, wincing when the beeping sudden turned into a shrill, continuous whine. That only left the damn tube they'd shoved down his throat. He curled both hands around the tube as tightly as he could, which wasn't very much because he felt so weak, and gave it a tug, instantly making a strangled sound of pain. Dean was determined though and prepared to try it again.

About that time the door to his room burst open and a group of people flooded in, freezing for a second when they caught sight of him sitting up and clutching the tube. He mentally cursed them for not coming in a moment of two later, when he would've already been out and homebound. After a moment of awkward staring, a rather large man who reminded him of his brother came over and pushed him back down on the bed, prying his hands away and strapping them down with those leather retaining straps that all hospital beds had. The doctor followed, holding one of his arms still and sticking him with a syringe before she started adjusting the tubing, telling him sternly that "the tube is for oxygen" and that he "needed it right now so leave it alone." He rolled his eyes at her and pouted as best he could, tugging at his restraints a little but giving up when a sudden, heavy exhaustion sapped the remaining strength from his limbs and body. Resigning himself, Dean sank back onto the bed, eyes slowly drooping shut—and in the corner of his vision, over by the door, he swore he saw a very familiar figure, tall and gangly, looking over at him sadly as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

When Dean awoke again, everything had changed. The first thing he noticed was that he was breathing on his own again, all the machinery aside from the heart monitor having been removed while he was out. Steady beeping filled the room, echoing slightly against the walls, but thankfully it wasn't nearly as loud now. Maybe he'd just been super sensitive at that time, because even the bright lighting seemed more bearable. Dean's head still felt like it'd been the battlefield for World War III, and there was a new pain blooming around the lower half of his ribcage. Something told him that was related to the IV he'd pulled from his arm earlier, which hadn't been replaced. The doctor probably figured he'd just take it out again; she was probably right, though as it was, moving wasn't exactly an easy task. His limbs felt like lead, completely immovable no matter how he tried, which seriously sucked because he was suddenly aware of how parched he was. It was like he hadn't had a drop of anything in the past year. He had been in hospitals plenty of times when he was younger, mostly because of his mother, so he knew that there was a nurse call button somewhere on the bed, it was just a matter of finding the damned thing...

"Oh, you're awake," a gruff voice sighed in relief, and Dean nearly gave himself whiplash, snapping his head around so quickly to see who else was in the room with him. To his complete surprise he came face to face with Bobby, who looked absolutely overjoyed to see him. He wouldn't have thought he would have been there, not considering how he'd been treating him back at the bar and he thought to ask him, but the only sound he seemed able to manage was something really scratchy and verging on guttural. Bobby just smiled at him sadly and reached over to grab the large cup off his nightstand, pressing a button on the side of the bed so that it sat him up a bit more, which was probably a good idea since he couldn't hold his own cup and was more likely to just spill the thing. It was actually kind of embarrassing, an independent guy like him needing to be taken care of like he was nothing more than a child, but as soon as the first drop of soothing liquid hit his lips, he didn't give a single fuck as to how pathetic he was, drinking greedily as if it was the last chance he'd ever get. All too soon it was being pulled away from him, Dean uttering a soft sound of complaint and trying to coerce his arms into moving so he could grab hold of it. "No," the older man told him sternly, setting the cup on the table again. He looked over at it longingly. "Too much so soon will just make you sick again."

Again...? Ah, he must have been referring to the bar. That was different, though, and they both knew it. "I don't—care," Dean croaked, cringing at the rough sound of his voice. It hadn't been like that before, and not drinking for a day certainly didn't cause that kind of effect...maybe it was because of all the tubes he'd had in him? Hell if he knew; he was no doctor. "Thirsty."

"I'm not surprised," Bobby said, adjusting his trucker hat and reaching out to press a button just out of his field of view. There was a brief little buzzing sound. "You've been on those machines for days now, Dean." Days? No way, he'd been at the bar just last night, hadn't he...? Sure, he was ill, but was it really so bad that he had to stay? As if sensing his confusion, the older man continued explaining. "I don't know how much you remember, but you got sick at the bar and passed out. We called an ambulance, and they rushed you here. That was...four days ago. The doctors were really concerned; they couldn't wake you up for a while there, and—"

The door flew open again, the female doctor who had tended to him earlier strolling in, clipboard in hand. At first she was just silent, checking the little chart at the end of his bed and taking his blood pressure, jotting down tons of little scribbled notes as he looked him over. "Do you hurt, Mr. Winchester?" she finally asked, a rather snide tone to her voice, like she was mocking him or some shit. He instantly thought up a smart remark but held his tongue, because picking fights right now didn't seem like a grand idea. He simply nodded slowly. "Well, maybe you shouldn't have pulled out your IV drip earlier...we had to move you to shots to keep you from doing it again. Here, give me your arm." Bobby paled a bit at her words, looking over at him worriedly, and it was clear that he hadn't known about Dean's little fit earlier. It made him wonder just how much they'd actually told him about this situation. The doctor grabbed his arm—she was not a patient woman, he learned that little detail very quickly—and stuck him with the needle, ignoring his soft sound of pain. He could feel a cold rush as she pressed down the plunger, injecting him with who-knows-what kind of drug and removing the instrument with expert precision. "Morphine. It'll help to ease the pain. While we wait for that to kick in," she said, tugging over a stool from the corner and plopping down onto it, "let's have a talk." Dean didn't like the sound of that.

"Have you ever heard of chronic liver disease?" the doctor asked them, and they nodded in response. It was what John had landed himself with after all the binge drinking a couple years back. Bobby still kept tabs on the guy just to make sure he was still alive over there; Dean couldn't care less. "Well, then, you may know that it has stages, and only some of them are curable. What you have, Mr. Winchester is cirrhosis, the final stage. I'm honestly surprised that it wasn't noticed sooner than this; it takes years to get this far and most people have symptoms like jaundice, excessive pain, bruising and bleeding...but you, you had none of those, according to your medical records. Check-ups all showed you to be in perfect health, minus the alcohol addiction. It's weird, for it to be so advanced..." The lady trailed off suddenly, probably realizing that she'd been over there rambling, and she actually looked a little embarrassed, though that only lasted a split second before she was back on task. "The thing is, you're so far into this that we can't do much for you. We can prescribe some pain killers for you, but that's pretty much it. In short, you're going to die no matter what we try to do." Wow, this lady was blunt, but part of Dean liked her honestly. There was no sugarcoating, no false hopes or lies, just the straight truth that there was no saving him.

Dean wasn't really bothered by the news, just shrugging to show his indifference, which earned him a concerned look from both the doctor and Bobby. They'd probably expected him to be torn up over it, to cry and bitch about how life wasn't fair, or to fall on his knees and beg them to help him somehow. No, this was pretty much what he wanted, so there was none of that emotional bullshit. There was a long, tense silence between them until Bobby finally broke it by solemnly asking, "How long?" The lady glanced down at her charts and then Dean, then back again, sighing heavily and informing them that he had, at most, six months left until his body shut down entirely. Six more months of waiting...maybe he could cut it down to three if he kept up his binge drinking.

"Well!" he exclaimed suddenly, wishing he could clap his hands for emphasis. "Now that we have that outta the way, can I just get my pain meds and get home? Got some work to catch up on, I should really—"

"No." The doctor looked over at him sternly and he scowled. What the hell did she mean, 'no'? He was a grown ass man, they couldn't hold him here against his will, and even if they could, he'd just climb out his window and leave. He had important business waiting for him, and its name was alcohol. He opened his mouth to complain at her, but she silenced him before he got the chance and continued. "Alcohol abuse is the reason for your disease, Mr. Winchester—" she _had _to stop calling him that, he wasn't his damn father "—and I don't know if you're aware or not, but that constitutes as an attempted suicide, and I am legally obligated to hold you until I'm sure you're not a threat."

"Hold me, huh? Well c'mere then." Dean finally managed to get his arms to move, extending them weakly as if to offer her a hug. She narrowed her eyes at him, pressing her lips into a thin line. He was testing her patience, he knew that, but frankly, he didn't give a shit. Let her get mad; what could she do? Yell at him? Yeah, he'd grown up with that kind of thing, so it didn't bug him anymore.

Bobby started to say his name warningly, but the doctor cut him off, that cool, snide appearance she'd originally had returning to her face. "No, thank you, I'll pass. Don't worry, though, you'll have plenty of time for hugs from the others in the psychiatric ward, where you'll be staying on suicide watch until further notice. Doctor's orders."

That took a moment to sink in, but as soon as it did, the playfulness simply washed out of him, leaving raw aggravation. There was no way she was serious, because he wasn't crazy! Spastic, maybe, and unpredictable, but his mind was stable. He didn't go around making flower crowns and singing, or whatever it was nutcases did in their spare time. "You're kidding me," he growled angrily, digging his fingers into his blanket. "I've got to stay in the damn _psycho ward?"_


	2. Chapter 2

Dean had been here literally twenty minutes and he already hated this place with a burning passion.

For starters, everything was white. The floors, walls, doors, sheets, furniture...everything. It was like the staff just walked around with little spray bottles of bleach in their pockets, it was so pristine. Any character the place may have had had been totally wiped away, leaving a rather empty, dull feeling in the halls. He just couldn't see how people found this kind of thing even remotely relaxing, because to him it was just uncomfortable and unnerving, and he pretty much had a permanent scowl on his face as the head nurse, Meg, led him around for the "grand tour." She was the only decent thing he'd seen so far. Meg was a pretty girl, with dark brown curls and eyes, rather petite compared to all the others he'd seen so far, and she was a sarcastic little shit. He could just tell from the handful of words they'd exchanged upon meeting. Maybe he'd like her; this place would still suck, though. All he saw was a pristine prison filled with craziness, dementia, and illness. He didn't belong here. Dean _wasn__'__t _crazy, he had known exactly what he was doing and yet they still stuck him in a place like this! "It was suicidal," he remembered the doctor saying when he told her as much. "Just accept it. You're legally obligated to go. Who knows, maybe you'll find something good there." Yeah, right. Nothing about this place was even remotely good.

"Dean?" Meg's voice broke into his train of thought and he blinked over at her in surprise, unaware that he'd been staring off into space until right then. She looked him over almost worriedly before cocking an eyebrow and smirking. "Don't go all lethargic on me now; we're almost to the best part: your room. You'll _love _it." He snorted and rolled his eyes but said nothing, simply following his nurse down the long, quiet hallway. This one was unlike the others he'd traveled thus far; instead of branching off into more halls or leading them to the large gathering rooms, this one had countless doors. They were all evenly spaced from one another and had little name plates just to the right of them, which were really just pieces of paper with the patient's name scrawled onto it in bold handwriting and stuck behind the plastic protector. "So we can move people around," Meg interjected, apparently noticing him staring at them as they passed. She was very observative, he had to hand her that one. "Most the time it's for a change of scenery. You'd be surprised how much that helps. Some people, though, they're...well, they're more permanent." She gestured to one of the many doors the place had that was covered in various crayon drawings or seasonal cards. "If you're on good behavior, you get to have some personal effects, like your own clothes, for starters." Well, Dean would have to be a perfect angel, because ripped up jeans sounded worlds better than the scratchy white scrubs he'd been forced into. Not to mention that this white hellhole could use a splash of colour.

They stopped together in front of the next to last door in the long hallway, and Meg stepped back and gestured to the door, as if giving him the honours of being the first to open it and see what was inside waiting for him. He checked the name on the little plate to be certain that she wasn't just trying to fuck around with him, since it definitely seemed liked something this woman would do, and then hesitantly pushed his way inside. Dean was honestly surprised at what he saw, because it wasn't like he'd imagined. What he had been thinking of was like some kind of little prison cell, barren and decrepit, but this was actually pretty nice, aside from the fact that the whole damn place was white—except for the blankets, that was. Those were a light blue, and though they weren't that far off from the colour of everything else, he'd take it. His bed was a single and had a stout, wooden frame around it, the surface etched with small carvings that were most likely from past tenants. There was a nightstand beside it with a singular drawer, and against the far wall stood a small chest of drawers and a desk. It was more like a damn hotel room than anything, complete with an attached bathroom, which he quickly learned was shared with the room beside him. Well, no matter. As long as the dude didn't make a huge mess in there or hog it all the time, that wasn't going to be a bit deal. It didn't seem that he'd have to worry about that, though. The shower curtain was a rich, dark blue, as was the rectangular mat on the floor, and everything was as pristine as the rest of the ward. His roommate—that was what he was going to call him, since they shared a bathroom—had obviously been on good behavior to get those colours in this place. He could get used to this, as much as he hated it. All the doors could be locked, so he'd get his privacy, and the singular window let him see out over the wide span of the woods behind them, with the large lake in the background. That'd make a beautiful sunset.

"Huh, this isn't so bad," he muttered to himself, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't alone until his nurse snorted softly and he glanced over at her, watching her shake her head at him, those dark curls bouncing around lively. "What're you snickerin' at over there, huh? Even you have to admit, it's better than everywhere else in this god-forsaken place." He plopped down on the edge of the bed and pet the covers, humming happily when he realized just how soft they actually were. Okay, the horror stories he'd heard didn't do these places justice. Sure, they were freaky as hell and he felt like a caged animal, but it'd be manageable if he just worked out where and how to spend his time. As far as he was concerned, he wasn't required to go out and do anything... He could just laze around and "recuperate," which really meant he was going to waste six months until he keeled over.

"Yeah, glad you like it, hun," Meg commented, turning to walk back to the door. "I've got some other rounds to do, so you're free to do whatever. Just don't try to leave the ward, that won't go well for you. Dinner's between six and seven. Oh, and just wait until you meet the guy next door. He's a charm." Something about that smirk told him that he wasn't as much of a charm as she said he was. That was only mildly concerning; he didn't plan on paying him or anyone else much mind, and he'd only talk to him when he really had to, like working out bathroom times if they ended up conflicting. No big deal. He waved her off and pushed off the loafers they'd given him, laying back on his bed with his arms tucked behind his head as a pillow, staring up at the ceiling so he could start memorizing its cracks. He hated to admit it, but he'd probably get bored in here. Maybe he could get some paper and a pencil to spend his time with. He sighed and glanced over towards the clock, reading that it was only 4:30 in the afternoon. He was beat, and there was time before dinner, so he could take a little nap. Dean yawned and stretched out, closing his eyes and trying to imagine he was somewhere else.

What felt like only a moment later he was being shaken lightly, a soft voice uttering his name. It sounded like his mother at first, but then his hearing cleared up and he recognized it as Meg's. "Hey, you need to get to dinner, they're not gonna be serving all night, you know," she told him, and he grumbled in response. He wasn't really hungry, but after he'd rolled out of bed and tromped down the hall a ways with her, he caught a whiff of what had to be the best smelling thing on the face of the planet, and his stomach betrayed him, growling loudly. He shrugged sheepishly and followed the nurse into the large dining room area, looking around at the diminishing crowd. It was late enough that most people had already eaten, it seemed. He could deal with this. Maybe he should just go ahead and make it habit to come later in the evening so as to avoid getting roped into any awkward conversations. Dean was the new guy, after all, and everyone always seemed to love talking to the new guy, just like back in grade school when you were number one in popularity for about a week. But unlike those days, he had no desire to speak with anyone in this place.

There was no reason for Meg to guide him around to everything when they'd had a tour earlier, so she said her goodbye at the door and took off down the other hall, leaving him to venture in by himself. The setup was just like any typical hospital, with a good number of round tables, each with four light blue plastic chairs. This place certainly seemed to have a thing for the white and blue scheme, namely the white part. Well, their logo _was _white, blue and gold, so he couldn't say he was surprised. They were just like a school, having select colours set for them. It was actually kind of nostalgic, in a weird sort of way. Dean huffed softly and made his way up to the serving line, grateful that he was able to get his food himself. He may have been stuffed into a mental ward, but he wasn't a damn invalid yet. According to the doctor he eventually would be, because he'd be far too sick to do much of anything, but that was five or six months out. Maybe he could prove to them that he didn't belong here and they'd let him get out early. Then he could go hit up a liquor store and drink himself into oblivion in the privacy of his own bedroom.

The food selection really didn't look that appealing to him so Dean just got minimal amounts of select things, plopping himself down at a table in the far corner and poking at it with his fork, almost expecting it to start moving around on the tray. He recalled a memory of when he was younger, back when his mother had still been around and he'd just been starting school, and he'd come home rambling on about how the school food was so bad that it moved around and shit. She'd laughed at him and told him he was just being over-imaginative. Maybe that was true, but he'd been very hesitant to eat a thing when he wasn't home after he got food poisoning from it. Dean smirked as he stabbed a piece of meat, wondering if maybe he could get food poisoning here too and have a really good reason to avoid socialization. While he didn't know much about the wards, he'd seen enough movies and videos with them in it that he'd notice everyone seemed kind of social. Unless they were locked up, nobody just stayed in their bedroom. Well, someone had to be first, and it might as well be him.

Dean quickly ate half of his meal and dumped the rest, then dodged around conversations and other patients so he could go lock himself back in his room, falling back on the bed with a sigh. This wasn't so bad so far, but he didn't like it, and he knew that he'd quickly get tired of a place like this. He felt like he was a captive here, wiped of his personality and character, forced into the same mold as everyone else. He wasn't an exception to anyone else here; he was crazy in their eyes, just like them. "I'll fucking show them," he grumbled, rolling onto his stomach and pulling the pillow over his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He just wanted to go to sleep for now and wake up to find that this whole thing was just a nightmare.

* * *

The week passed by in a blur of colour and motion. Dean spent more time in his room than out of it, scribbling away letters at his desk for hours on end—he'd been able to get some writing utensils and a notebook—addressing all of them to Sam. It was stupid, writing to someone who was dead, but it was what he felt he should do. There was just so much that he wanted to speak with him about, and this was the only method he had left. Some part of him actually had the gall to hope that he'd be able to find a way to see him again and talk to him before his time was up. He was pretty content just staying in there and writing all the time, but it didn't take long for Meg to decide he was becoming too introverted. "You need to get out here more often, Dean," she'd complained, leaning against the wall in his room as he poked at his paper, thinking. "Hey, don't ignore me. You're not gonna have a choice soon, you know. Since you're on depression medication now, you've got to start attending the group therapy once a week." They'd put him on the pills the first evening he'd been there; there was one for depression and one to ease the pain of his body killing itself. If only there was something to help with the urges that gor worse every day. He was to take them twice a day and he could take more for pain as it progressed. Both made him feel a little drowsy, but he'd admit, he always felt a little lighter for about an hour after they kicked in.

"Listen, I don't want to go to some touchy-feely group to talk about my feelings, capishe?" Dean snapped, turning in his chair to glare at her evenly. He'd done therapy before, and he knew it didn't work for him even if it was one on one. Talking in a group? Hell no, that'd do nothing for him. He didn't give a shit about these people and their problems, and he didn't want to address his own. He just wanted to go curl up in a corner and die; was that too much to ask for? Apparently so.

"Right, and I don't want to lose my job or see you become a hermit." He snorted, wondering which one of those was actually more important to her. Meg was nice enough, but she seemed like the kind of person who also really liked their money. "You can't get out of this, Dean. Tonight, you'd better be at therapy, or I'm going to have one of the orderlies bring you down there by force." His smiled died; that was a convincing reason to go. He'd seen a couple of those guys his second night, manhandling some big burly guy who had to be at least Sam's size into his room without even breaking a sweat. There was no way he could fight against them. So he was forced to begrudgingly accept attending and left to his own devices for the next hour and a half. He really considered just like hiding in the bathroom or maybe his roommate's room since the door didn't seem to be locked—he'd checked out of curiosity, because he'd never heard a single sound come from that room, but it'd been so pitch black that he couldn't see a thing in there—because even though he'd agreed, he wasn't planning on saying shit to these people.

Despite his better judgment, Dean found himself standing nervously in front of a large door that led to one of the meeting rooms, where the therapy group was being held. It'd started five minutes ago, but he had yet to go in, instead just staring blankly at the floor. The orderly nearby eyed him warily, no doubt having been told about him by Meg. He wanted to bolt, but with that guy there, he didn't have a choice. With a shaky sigh, he reached out and clutched the cold knob, turning it and pushing his way into the room. Instantly he was greeted with a number of wide, staring eyes, but thankfully whoever was speaking just continued on like nothing had happened. It was nice because it guaranteed that attention wasn't strictly on him as he shuffled in and took a seat in the circle. There were a couple other empty seats, one of which was being started at forlornly by a pretty petite girl with long red hair. Maybe she had a friend who was supposed to be here? Hell, he didn't know, and frankly, he didn't care. Though he had to admit, he was a smidge curious about the owners of the empty seats...

_Dean, no, you don__'__t care, _he chided himself, crossing his arms across his chest and sinking down in his chair a bit, doing his absolute best to tune out the guy rambling on about something. He knew that everyone here was either here because of depression, terminal illness or suicidal behavior, and that was enough information for him. He didn't want to get roped into liking anyone because that was an attachment, and when he died he'd just be leaving them behind with the lingering pain Sam had left _him _with. He didn't want the cycle to continue anymore.

"Dean, right?" a loud voice suddenly said, and Dean jolted in his seat in surprise, glancing towards a burly man who appeared to be the leader of the circle. He was dressed in dark blue, like the rest of the staff, but his nametag said that he was a psychiatrist. Great, just what he wanted. Another one of those people. He nodded curtly and glared at his shoes, wiggling his toes inside them to distract himself from the stares. "Dean, why don't you tell us why you're here?"

"How about you mind your own fucking business?" he quipped, ignoring the audible gasps from multiple patients sitting in the circle of chairs. Really, he probably should have kept his trap shut and not offended the guy, but he didn't want to be here. Maybe they'd suspend him or something.

Yeah, right, like he'd get that lucky.

The man scoffed and sat back in his chair, glancing towards the orderly standing in the corner of the room. "Now, there's no need for that kind of language. How about we just skip you today and let you get adjusted and next week we can talk?" That was pretty much code for saying that one way or another, he _was _going to talk. Dean would cut out his tongue before he spilled his heart out to some old fart. He nodded dully and returned to his sulking, wondering just what in the hell so many people found helpful about this situation. "Jeffrey? How about you?" the psychiatrist continued, acting as if nothing at all had just happened. Well, all the better if people ignored him. He couldn't help but notice that that redheaded girl across from him did stare at him a bit now, even smiling when their eyes met for a brief two seconds. She seemed amused by his little outburst and he was almost tempted to ask her what the hell was so funny, only...she was pretty cute.

Shit.

The meeting dragged on and Dean glared at the floor, refusing to even glance around despite the fact that he felt eyes on him multiple times. Nobody spoke to him again, thankfully, and before long it was over, the psychiatrist dismissing them and everyone stood up to file out...except for him and the redhead. "Hi, I'm Charlie," she introduced cheerily, smiling brightly at him. He just looked her over warily for a long moment, and then reached out to shake the hand offered to him. He didn't have to be a total dick, so long as they didn't get too close, right?

"Dean," he offered, quickly sticking his hands back into his pockets, which the scrub pants thankfully had. He'd have thrown a fit if they didn't. Charlie looked him over skeptically, and he fidgeted under her gaze. He was totally used to being checked out, but...he didn't really do girls all that much. Of course, he wasn't _gay..._he just had more of an affinity for guys, and he was open about it. Nobody here knew that, though. Well, if they ever learned one thing about him, that might as well be it. Let it go on his grave that he liked dick and didn't give a fuck. "Listen, don't get the wrong impression, I don't exactly like talking to people—"

"Oh, I gathered that much," Charlie laughed softly, and he found that it was actually a very pretty sound in the midst of all the awful things, something he'd like listening to. It kind of reminded him of the way his mother laughed at his stupid childish antics. "I've just never seen you around, and I kinda wanted to ask you if you knew where Cas was?" Oh, good, he'd thought she was going to ask—wait, _what? _

"Who the fuck is Cas?" Dean looked at her quizzically now, racking his memory for anyone he knew with that name. He knew a Cassie from when he was a teenager; the two of them had dated for a while, but she was long gone now, and he doubted that Charlie was looking for someone like that. She seemed pretty downcast at his comment, frowning worriedly and glancing at the wall clock as if she had somewhere to be.

"He's...a patient here. Castiel? I haven't seen him the past two weeks, and I'm worried about him. I just thought maybe you'd know, sorry..."

Dean shook his head lightly, taking a step towards the door, grateful when she turned to go with him, signaling that she wasn't just going to try standing around and chatting with him. He hated when people couldn't take hint. "Sorry, but I don't know anyone named Cas, and I don't plan to. I'm going to bed, so...good luck on your search." _I guess. _For all he knew, this mystery dude was her imaginary friend. Why the hell would she be asking the new guy where someone else was? Like he'd know. Dean excused himself and left her standing there, not caring if it was rude because he couldn't afford to get too friendly with anyone. They could be acquaintances if she _really _insisted, but no more.

Still, he couldn't help but feel like he was being a real prick, and part of him was urging him to go apologize and maybe help look for this "Cas" person. He swallowed it down, though, with the bitter knowledge that he was going to die in the end so it really didn't matter. Six months wasn't that long when you got right down to it. Dean locked himself into his white prison and flopped face down on his bed, clutching the fluffy pillow and cramming his face into it, groaning loudly. It was frustrating, really. Why couldn't he have had, say, a month at most? Two weeks? It'd be less stressful, surely. Dean groaned again and rolled over onto his side, jerking up the blue blanket to cover himself and closing his eyes. Maybe he could just sleep until time was up...

No such luck. Dean swore that he'd just closed his eyes when he heard a horrible racket coming from the hall just outside his door. "Please!" someone was screaming pathetically, their voice all hoarse, no doubt from being so vocal. It sounded like they were being pulled all the way down to the end of the hall, and a door was being opened. His stomach twisted with dread. "Please, let me go! They're coming to find me, you have to believe me, I can _hear _them! They'll—!" The rest of the stranger's shout was cut off and turned into muffled sounds, which finally died down all together after a nurse called for a sedative. Dean crawled out of bed and padded over to the door, regretting what he was about to do, because he didn't want to be correct.

Meg was in the hall, closing the door next to his softly and running a hand through her curly hair. "Meg?" he questioned softly, and when she looked at him, he couldn't help but think that she looked like shit. She'd mentioned double shifts earlier in the week, and now she seemed so exhausted. "What..._who _was that? What's wrong with 'em?"

"That...was your roommate, Dean," she sighed heavily, looking apologetic. "He's a doll, really he is, but sometimes...he has fits of severe psychosis. He's a sick man. If you ever hear something that sounds off, please, come find me immediately. He should be alright; he's just had treatment, but...just keep an eye out for me, would'ya?" Dean nodded lightly, wanting to repay her for what she'd thus far done for him. It wouldn't be hard. Just listen for weird shit, find Meg if something's wrong. Simple, right?

There was one thing he needed to figure out still, though, because the door next to his had never had a name plate. "What's his name..?" Part of him didn't want to know. He preferred being oblivious. But it wasn't like it'd hurt to know the guy's name, and maybe it could just so happen to be the person Charlie was looking for. Two birds with one stone.

"Castiel."


	3. Chapter 3

"So, what's the deal with this Castiel guy anyway?" Dean would never openly admit to it, but he'd been mulling over the whole situation ever since Meg and the orderlies had dragged a crazy, raving man into the room next to his and asked that he report anything odd. He'd been fulfilling his promise, listening for anything that sounded out of place, but that was just the problem; there simply was no noise from that room. It was quite eerie, actually, because no human being could possibly be that quiet. When he listened at the bathroom door out of curiosity, he was alarmed to realize that he couldn't even hear breathing in there, no matter how hard he strained. Had it not been for the simple fact that none of the nurses who went in there to administer medication or whatever had freaked out, Dean would've just thought that the guy curled up and died in there. It'd been that way for a couple days now, and only last night did he hear the faintest sound through their conjoined walls. It had sounded distinctly like sobbing.

Beside him, Charlie fidgeted in her seat, looking a bit uncomfortable with the question and glancing around to make sure nobody was within hearing distance. He'd managed to track her down again, which wasn't really that hard considering that this place only had about sixty patients at most, and they were currently occupying the corner table in the cafeteria. Dean had apologized for being so brisk before, explaining that he was just tired and irritable, and she'd been understanding enough. Really, having someone to talk to wouldn't be such a bad thing. They could just be casual friends, like those people at school that you talk to while you're there but never say a word to outside of that building. Besides, he rather liked her chipper attitude. It was the one brightening aspect—aside from Meg's sarcasm, of course, he so adored that—of this entire ward so far.

"Well," she began softly, poking at her salad aimlessly, "he's an angel."

An angel? Like, big white fluffy wings, carrying around a golden harp, singing about praises and bullshit 24/7 _angel? _No way, the guy really was off his rocker! Dean snorted and rolled his eyes, looking over at her incredulously. She almost looked offended by his amusement, her dark green eyes narrowed dangerously. Well, he'd already pieced together that she and Castiel were friends, at least, so it wasn't that surprising. "Um, excuse me, _what?"_

"You heard me, he's an angel," Charlie repeated coolly, brushing her long hair over her shoulder and returning her attention to her meal, getting a forkful of leafy greens and sticking it in her mouth. He scowled. Salad was literally the grossest thing. His little brother, Sam, had loved eating it, but him? No, that was rabbit food. He preferred real things, like fries and a cheeseburger, which was actually what he got to have today. _Bless this menu. _Dean picked up a couple fries and crammed them in his mouth, looking at her pointedly so that she knew he expected her to continue explaining her crazy friend. "Well, he says he is, at least, and I don't know, I trust the guy. If he wants to be an angel, hell, he's an angel. He could be the president for all I care." Charlie shrugged nonchalantly, dropping her head a bit so her hair could fall down and hide the slight blush to her cheeks.

Dean knew that look well. "Oh, you like him!" he teased, jabbing her lightly. She batted his hand away and he laughed, actually in a damn good mood for the first time since he'd come here. "What, is he that much of a looker? Because you are _so _into him."

"I am not!"

"Are too."

"Not," she grumbled, defeated. He smirked at his easy victory and then really began to wonder just what this guy looked like. Charlie just didn't seem like the kind of person who really got interested in people, seeing as he'd noticed that she too kept her distance from everyone, so he had to be like, a model or something. Dean had more opportunity than anyone to catch a glimpse at this guy; maybe he should? If anyone complained, he could say that he was just peeking in to make sure his very silent roommate was still alright, right? It was pitch black, though, so he'd have to turn on the light...meaning that he couldn't really do it discretely. He didn't know that Castiel would appreciate someone invading his privacy like that. "We're just friends, and I like his stories."

Dean tilted his head a bit to the side, intrigued. "Stories, huh? What, does he tell you fairy tales or somethin'?" he asked, smirking when she punched him in the arm. The two of them were already getting along pretty well; he was surprised. Usually people only took a liking to him if they wanted to get him in bed. In this place, that really wasn't a likely situation, so he was assuming—hoping, if he was honest with himself—that she just liked him because of who he was when he wasn't being a grade A asshole, which was somewhere around 90% of the time anymore. "Okay, I'll bite. What's he tell?"

"War stories!" Charlie sounded enthused about the idea, and he was a bit taken aback. He hadn't figured her for a history buff, but hell, what did he know? He raised an eyebrow and took a big bite of his remaining half of his cheeseburger, chewing slowly as he listened. "Well, all kinds of history, but mostly wars. The way he talks, there's so much detail and emotion, and it's almost like he's been there himself or something. I think you'd like listening, even if you _are _a grump."

It was his turn to take the defensive, claiming that he wasn't a grump while she just laughed at him. The rest of their meal was spent with idle chit-chat, just pleasant conversation, and then they went their separate ways. Charlie had extended an offer to him to join her in the lounge to watch television, but he was more interested in continuing his little journals to Sam. He considered them journals now because he included a lot that he'd never write in a letter, personal things that he'd normally be so embarrassed to talk about. Dean wasn't known for being a softie, but he was, deep down. He was always just expected to be the strong older brother, the one who could be the support in his and Sam's lives when there was no other. He'd adopted that persona early in life and it'd just kind of stuck to him like glue, even when they'd moved in with Bobby and he no longer had to worry about half the things he used to. It was who he was, both inside and out.

The shower was running when he stepped into his room, surprisingly enough, and for a moment he almost wondered if he'd left it on earlier, only to realize a moment later that it had to be his roommate in there. Well, it was nice to finally have some solid evidence that the guy was alive, at least. Dean made a beeline for his desk and plopped down into his chair, pulling out the notebook from the drawer and uncapping a pen, wasting absolutely no time. He started by jotting down the activities of today, his conversations with Charlie and then what he thought of her. It was like he was cataloguing his every day, like it'd matter one day. Maybe it would. Maybe Dean would get an award for bitchiest patient or something and they'd want his story. It was highly unlikely—the wanting his story part, not him being the bitchiest person there, because he was pretty sure that he was—but hell, what could it hurt? It helped him keep shit straight, and it was for Sam. That was good enough.

Dean had been jotting things down for a good five minutes before he heard a soft thud in the bathroom and stopped, his pen poised above the letters he'd just inked onto the blank line of the page, glancing towards the door in concern. He almost got up to go check if the guy was alright, but then told himself that it was probably just a bottle falling over. He'd be honest; he knocked pretty much all of the shit in that shower over on a daily basis. The shelves were just so small, nothing really fit on them and it was all a game of balance. The only decent thing about the showers here was that water pressure. Oh, it was just heavenly. Dean sighed softly and went back to scratching his thoughts onto his paper, only getting a couple of lines filled before there was a rather loud thud, the sound of something heavier falling to the ground. Okay, now he was concerned.

He slowly climbed to his feet and crossed over to the door, knocking on it lightly. "C-Castiel?" he stammered nervously, hoping the guy would just irritably say he was fine or something so he could return to his solitary activity. He waited a moment and tried again, knocking a little harder in case he couldn't hear over the hiss of the water. "Hey, man, you okay? I, um, I hear a loud noise..." Still, there was nothing, and he narrowed his eyes skeptically. He could so very easily just turn and go back to his desk, pretend he hadn't heard a thing, because if he did anything, who knew what he'd be getting himself wrapped up in? But on the other hand, if Castiel had passed out in there or something...he could drown. Dean didn't want social interaction, but he didn't want the guy to die because of his refusal to help. He just wasn't that cruel, and he didn't think he could handle two deaths on his conscious. So Dean sucked in a deep breath and unlocked the door, gripping the cold knob and twisting, pushing the door inward.

He was greeted by a thick wall of steam and was instantly glad that he didn't wear glasses, because he'd have been totally blind right then. "Cas, man?" he called softly as he stepped in, trying to ignore his pounding heart. God, he could get into so much trouble, walking into a bathroom while another man was showering... He cautiously looked over towards the shower, thankful that the dark curtain was drawn, but also a bit miffed because that meant he couldn't just peek and see if the guy was alright or not. Dean crept closer to the shower, reaching in blindly to cut it off. Without the constant noise, he could hear faint, ragged breathing and instantly panicked, jerking the curtain back.

A man was there, curled up in a ball on the shower floor yet still revealed, twitching a bit and looking troubled, like he was having some nightmare. Dean couldn't help but blush a bit at the sight of him naked but tried not to dwell on it, carefully easing him up into a sitting position, which was hard considering he was 100% dead weight. He must've hit his head or something; Castiel was out cold. Thankfully Dean was actually pretty strong from all the work he'd done back with Bobby, so lifting him wasn't that big a deal. He slid his arm under his and around his back, hoisting him up so that he was leaning against him heavily, then dipped so put his other arm behind his knees and pick him up bridle style. It wasn't like the guy was going to be much help walking, so this was the only thing he could think to do with him. Dean fought to open the other door, thankful it wasn't locked, and nudged the light switch with his elbow as he staggered in.

He'd never seen the room before, so the sight of it now completely shocked him. It was small and white, just like his, but the walls...they had bold black writing all over them, covering every square inch. Some of it was large symbols and what seemed to by some kind of symbolic language, and the majority were scrawled messages and ramblings. It sent a chill down his spine and Dean quickly switched his focus to the bed, laying Castiel on it and pulling up the blanket so he didn't have to 1. freeze and 2. just lie there naked for the world to see. He gingerly pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse and sighing in relief when he felt the strong jump against his fingers. It was short lived, though, because he noticed then that the guy was burning up, despite the fact that he was shivering. He was most definitely ill and he had no idea what to do for him, aside from getting Meg or any nurse he came across. He himself preferred his sarcastic nurse, but anyone would do.

Dean pulled the covers up a little closer to Castiel's chin and stepped back, hoping he wouldn't just die before he got back with someone. God, he didn't even know what he was doing here. He was supposed to ignore everything, yet...he wanted so badly to help this man. He wanted to talk to him and be his friend, among other things, and he hated him for it. Dean wasn't supposed to get attached, and certainly not to a perfect stranger...even if he didn't _feel _like a stranger to him. "I, um, I'm gonna go get help," he muttered, not sure why he was even bothering to talk to someone who was unconscious. He just felt like he should say it, in case he woke up and panicked. "Just...wait here." Dean hurried to the door, glanced back, and then he was gone.

* * *

"Now, what have I told you about pulling out your IVs?" Meg was chiding Castiel, who was looking a little better now than he had when Dean had found him in the shower. He really didn't know what he was doing here, sitting in the desk chair watching the nurse take care of him, but there Dean sat despite himself. Maybe it was because when they'd returned, Castiel had been fighting something in his sleep, and he'd had to hold him down since no orderlies were around yet. Yeah, that was it. Because he most certainly wasn't worried about him, no, not at all. He didn't even like the guy.

He couldn't.

It didn't help matters that Castiel was a seriously attractive creation. He was the most amazing shade of tan with dark, messy hair and those beautiful blue eyes. When he looked at you, he could almost see right through you. It was rather eerie, but Dean found himself wanting to stare right back at him nevertheless. Castiel looked quite fit—he'd seen him naked, he knew what the guy looked like and probably wouldn't be able to look at him for a while—but at the same time he was unhealthily thin, like he just didn't eat or something. He'd been able to feel his ribs, for crying out loud. But all in all, he was such a stunning person. Too bad they'd had to have met under these circumstances, with him being insane and Dean slowly but surely dying. Yeah, life wasn't very fair.

"Not to take them out," Castiel grumbled, and Dean had to take a moment to appreciate the way his voice was nice and low, and how it was kind of gravelly as if from disuse. He had the kind of voice that you could literally listen to for hours and still find just as lovely and interesting. No wonder he was a good storyteller—according to Charlie. He'd never heard the guy talk aside from his short answers to Meg. "But they're irritating."

"I know," Meg sighed, and Dean glanced back over at the pair at the hint of compassion in her tone. She was smoothing his hair back from his face, her expression unreadable but her eyes betraying her sadness. It reminded him of the look his mother used to give him when he was sick and worried over his condition. It was the look that somebody gave those they cared about. "But you can't keep pulling them out. You _know _you need that medicine, and the pills aren't strong enough by themselves anymore." Dean idly wondered what kinds of medication the guy was on. He was clearly unhealthy, and it really seemed like he should be in the actual hospital instead of the psychiatric ward, despite the wall writings and obvious problems in his head. "For heaven's sake, you passed out in the shower! You're lucky that Dean was in his room..."

At the mention of his name, Castiel lolled his head to the side and looked over at him, examining him slowly with that piercing gaze of his. He tried not to fidget in his seat and met the eyes challengingly, honestly surprised when the guy smiled softly a moment later and returned to resting on his pillow, closing his eyes as if he was planning to fall asleep. "Thank you," he murmured, just barely audible from across the room. Dean had always had pretty good hearing, probably why he'd always been able to catch Sam when he was trying to sneak out as a young kid, so he managed to catch it and nodded his head, ignoring the fact that Castiel couldn't see him while laying like he was.

"Yeah...no problem," he muttered, blushing. He was glad that nobody was really paying him much mind. Dean stood slowly and pushed the chair back under the desk, stretching for a moment before walking over to stand at the side of the bed beside Meg, who was carefully adjusting the tape they used to hold the tubes to the patient's arm. It was easy to pull off, but somehow seemed to keep right on sticking even when it came in contact with water. "Maybe you should just wrap his entire arm with it," he said softly, smirking when the nurse actually smiled, shaking her head and making her dark curls bounce. He'd actually been halfway serious with that comment; if the guy kept taking out the tubes, then that was a pretty good way to keep him from doing it without putting himself in some serious hurt. But if he was anything like Dean, he'd do it regardless of pain. In his defense, he'd been kind of panicked when he awoke, so it really wasn't even his fault. Somebody should've been there with him if they were going to hook him up to strange shit. "Well, hey, listen...I'm gonna go back to my room. Medicine makes me drowsy, so it's either that or be the next one to pass out." That was a bit of a lie, really just an excuse to get out of there, but it was thankfully believable enough. Meg just nodded and waved him off, and Castiel didn't even move. He could almost swear he looked disappointed, though...

Dean went back to his room through the bathroom to save himself from having to go walk in the halls where it was possible to get roped into conversation, pushing his door shut and locking it, as he typically did. It just made him feel safer, knowing that nobody could get in here without a key. Not that he was afraid of these people; they all seemed nice enough, he supposed. Nobody had bothered him thus far, after all. He clicked off his light so that Meg wouldn't catch him in his lie and walked over to the window, opening the shade enough to let the moonlight filter in, and carefully set himself down at his desk. He wanted to write, but all his mind could do was worry. And not even about himself; he was worried about Castiel, if he'd be alright after that fall. He'd hit his head against the shower wall pretty hard, and he looked so dead...

_Stop it, Dean, _he chided himself, picking up the pen and stabbing it roughly against the paper. He couldn't afford to think about anyone else, not now, not ever. He wasn't interested in their lives. He didn't like them. Everyone around him was crazy and he needed to avoid them at all costs. He knew this, yet...

Why did it have to be so difficult to do?

Dean huffed and dropped his pen back onto his desk, sliding out of the chair and going over to flop on his bed unceremoniously. He pulled the blanket up haphazardly and buried his face in the pillow. He needed to just go to sleep, clear his head, and when he got up he'd be better sorted out. Dean just needed to get his priorities in order. Then he could go about his business.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** For those who won't see chapter 1 again, I wanted to apologize for forgetting to add in my line breaks. I thought they transferred, heh. Sorry! This is fixed for all future posts :)

* * *

A week and a half passed after that with no further incident. Dean felt like shit for the first couple of days, because he'd most definitely been able to see the hurt on Charlie's face when he walked away from her and he knew that Castiel needed help because he was just so weak, but he was over it now. He just stared at the ground all the time and glared at anyone who touched him or tried to talk with him. They got the messages and fucked off. Despite his determination, though, Dean often found himself staring at the pair of potential friends longingly, wishing he could go join them and have a decent time in this hellhole. He was already so attached to them. For heaven's sake, he'd heard a bang in the bathroom just the other day and had rushed over to the door thinking Castiel had fallen or something, only to hear one of the orderlies singing out of tune as he clanged around in there, probably cleaning or something. That was why he needed distance.

Meg said that doing this was only making him progressively more depressed and pissy, and although he knew she was right, he'd told her to shut up and threw a crumpled paper at her. Now he didn't even have her company. It was just him and Sam. Dean hadn't said anything about it to anyone for fear of being deemed crazy, but he swore that he's started seeing his little brother places, just glimpses of him walking down the hall or standing along the wall of a room, watching. It was eerie and at the same time it gave him so much relief to know that despite what he'd done, his little brother hadn't abandoned him entirely. _Ghosts hang around to protect people they love_, he recalled his mother saying to a five-year-old him after he'd come crying to her about seeing a person walking upstairs and vanishing entirely. _Someone they loved must've been here. It's okay, they aren't scary._

Dean had never been one to believe in the supernatural, werewolves and vampires, all that bullshit, but ghosts were fucking real, he'd swear it to his grave. That was why there were random cold spots in rooms and why you got the feeling of being watched when you were completely alone. They weren't vengeful or anything, like people liked to claim; they just sort of hung around, watched life, and probably wished they were part of it again. Hell, he didn't know. He wasn't a ghost.

Maybe he'd have been better off as one, though, because this life was lonely. He couldn't be around anybody and his one salvation wasn't speaking to him aside from her required duties, like telling him about his medication or asking if he needed anything. He'd been holed up in his room for so long now, he was aching to get out and do something. But the issue was exactly that. There was nothing to do here, or at least, nothing he wanted to do. If he had his freedoms, he'd be outside in the sunny weather with a beer, fixing up his Baby and making her all shiny. She still had a couple of dents in her that he'd never gotten around to fixing, and it was nagging at his conscious now. Maybe he could convince them to bring his car to the lot closest to this wing and an orderly could go outside with him while he worked on her. He hadn't misbehaved, so they really had no reason to put him on lockdown or refuse him some freedom, right?

It made sense to him. So Dean wandered out into the halls and found the nearest orderly, as Meg sadly wasn't around at this time, and asked his question. The man looked thoughtful for a long moment, running his hand through thick brown hair and looking him over carefully, almost _too _carefully. It made him feel awkward, like a caged animal in some kind of zoo and he nearly snapped at the guy to stick his eyes elsewhere. Thankfully it didn't take him long to reply, at least. "Well, I really dunno," he muttered, shaking his head lightly. "You'd have to go ask the head honcho about that one." The orderly jabbed his thumb in the direction of the main hall, the one with the locked double doors that lead back to the regular hospital wings. There'd been a door right beside the, he'd noticed when he first came in. It was one of those fancy offices, with the name printed right on the door. It was Doctor...something. Dean couldn't really remember. It didn't matter, though, because he was literally talking to the guy one time.

Dean thanked the man for his help and set off down the hall, glancing at every door he passed so that he didn't miss it and have to double back. The last thing he needed was to look like a moron; they already thought he was messed up, holing up in his room all day every day, only leaving for food and the required therapy, which he still didn't like. He'd gotten removed this past time for telling the therapist to fuck himself. The guy deserved it in his opinion; he was always prying into his business even when he knew he didn't want to answer his stupid questions. What he did was his business and nobody else's. The reasons he was suicidal were his own and he wasn't willing to share. Was that so hard to get? Then again, he'd probably never experienced half the shit the people in this group had. Some people were just that lucky.

That was the first impression he got from this doctor, too, just from the first second he stepped foot inside his office. Dean didn't even bother knocking, because he didn't give a shit. He just walked right in and the golden haired man looked up in surprise, pushing his wire-framed glasses up on his nose as he studied him with eyes that reminded him of sunlight filtering through a glass of whiskey, and Dean occupied himself by taking a quick glance around. The walls were covered in awards, documents framed in black frames and hung with the utmost care, and little gold statuettes sitting on a shelf, neatly aligned. They were probably dusted daily or something. Life had certainly been good to this guy, Doctor...Gabriel! That was it. Dean definitely hadn't had to read the name tag on the desk to figure that out. Man, he just sounded like a prick.

"You're Dean, I presume?" the man said simply after a long moment of staring and he nodded, pulling out the chair across from him and plopping into it. It was nicely cushioned and comfortable, much better than the plastic ones they had to sit in at therapy. For all their talk about relaxing and having a therapeutic experience, the only thing he was ever acutely aware of by the time he left was not some inner peace, but the fact that his ass hurt from sitting in that chair for an hour and half, sometimes longer if their therapist droned on and on, which he often did do. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Dean." _Probably all bad things, I'm sure. _"Can I help you with something...?"

"Yeah, actually," he finally replied, crossing his legs and arms, trying to reign in the sarcasm he felt bubbling up. Getting sassy with this guy wasn't a good plan, considering he was in charge of everything here. If he pissed him off, he'd probably never let him go outside and work on Baby, like he wanted. "I want to work on my car."

Gabriel's eyebrows shot up, and Dean was immediately preparing a counter-argument for the rejection that was sure to come. "Your car? But isn't that out in the lot?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So...I can't permit you to leave this facility, Dean, you know that." Right. They thought he was just going to take the opportunity and split—and they were probably right. Who wouldn't want to get out of here? He'd have been happier if sent to a hospice, where at least everyone knew and accepted they were going down the drain without any chance of stopping it. Everything here was happy and bubbly, trying to promote the idea that they were going to get better. Dean was the only one who seemed to realise he was on the fast track. "There are plenty of things to do around here, though. For instance, the lounge—"

"Is filled with people I don't have any desire to speak to," Dean finished sourly. "Listen, I'm not crazy. I don't belong here! But I can't leave so just cut me this break, okay? Like, send one of your big guys out with me or something, I seriously doubt I could get away." He'd seen them drag away a guy bigger than they were, for Heaven's sake; a thinner person like him wouldn't be any issue. Sure, Dean could run pretty fast—he'd had more than just a few people compare him to a gazelle back when he was on the high school track team—but these days he just wasn't holding up as well as he had been, no doubt thanks to the wonderful care he took of his body. "Send like ten of them if you want, I'm just about to go crazy in this place, and I _need _to get outside."

They had a little garden type area in the middle of the whole place, sort of boxed in by the building so nobody could get out that way, but it just wasn't the same. The fresh air was nice and he had to admit that the flowers were really pretty—his mother would've loved them—but it couldn't begin to compare to the scenes he was more used to, him leaning over a car with the hood popped open, his hands covered in black grease and the air thick with the varied scents of oils or other fluids. Mechanic work was his _life; _without it he just felt empty. He couldn't handle five more months of absolute nothingness. He really would go insane at that rate.

He watched the man carefully as he considered the proposition, trying to muster up as much of a hopeful look as he could. He couldn't do the puppy eyes the way his brother always could, but he'd certainly try his best, and maybe it'd work the same. Gabriel sighed softly, ran a hand through his golden hair, and then nodded lightly, looking up at him with a faint smile. "Alright, that seems pretty fair," he agreed, and Dean barely refrained from jumping up and cheering, though he definitely did so mentally. "Two orderlies go with you. You are to listen to them and do as they say. If I hear of any problems at all, I'll have to revoke this permission. Are we clear?"

"Crystal." Dean stood with a satisfied smirk and waited until the doctor stood as well to shake his hand, sealing their deal. He didn't feel like he had to insist on him writing it down or something; the guy just seemed good for his word. He felt a bit bad for mentally calling him a prick earlier. He really wasn't so bad, aside from the fact that he wouldn't just discharge him so he could get the hell out of everyone's hair and die in peace. The best he could get was locking himself up in his room for the remainder of five months. Maybe he could work something out to get away from the orderlies and just split one day. They had codes on the doors, if he could just memorise one of those, he'd be set, right? It couldn't be _that _hard, now that he thought about it. "Thanks, doc. When can I go out..?"

Again, he appeared very thoughtful for a long moment, glancing down at some of the scattered papers on his desk. "Well, I have to rearrange schedules and pick the two I want to go with you, but...a couple hours or so? If you've got the tools, that is. Otherwise, you can call someone tonight to get some and it'll have to wait until tomorrow." Dean always kept some tools in Baby's trunk in case he suddenly had to repair something on the go. If he needed anything else, he could call Bobby. He needed to call the old man anyway, tell him he was doing fine just to appease him and keep his promise to contact him. He'd come to visit Dean once, but...he'd refused to see him. And honesty, he felt s little bad about that. Bobby had been nothing but good to him.

"I've got the tools," he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. The thought of getting some damn freedoms in this place was an exciting one and he was ready to rock and roll. He was told that when his accompaniments were decided, they'd come get him from his room or wherever he happened to be at the time—which was going to be his room, as usual. Dean had to resist the strong urge to sprint down the halls like a kid on Christmas, instead thanking the doctor for his help again and strolling back to his room with a new jump in his step.

* * *

"_Dean, should we really be doin__' __this?"_

_Dean paused, slowly pulling the tip of the blade back from the floor of the Impala and glancing up at his little brother, who was watching earnestly while casting nervous glances back at the house, whose lights were still ablaze. Their father no doubt was still awake inside, drinking and yelling at who knew what, like he always seemed to be doing these days. He__'__d long since stopped paying them any mind, which was why it was so easy to slip outside in the dead of night. "Well, yeah, Sammy, why not?"_

_Sam fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "Won__'__t dad get mad at us? __'s his car..."_

"_It__'__s not his...or at least, it won__'__t be," Dean proclaimed, nodding once to help emphasize. His dad didn__'__t drive the car any longer—he was always too drunk to—so there was no reason in him keeping it. As soon as Dean could get his license, it was his. He__'__d get Bobby to change the title or something. John would never even notice. "So we should claim it so nobody can say otherwise. See?"_

_He pushed the knife tip back into the sturdy material of the floor, slowly carving the singular D a little deeper so there was no chance it__'__d be missed. Sam leaned in a little closer; he could feel his breath on the back of his neck as he struggling to see around him as he started the W. It wasn__'__t the neatest work, but it was perfect to leave their mark on this territory that would one day be theirs. Not his, not Sam__'__s, theirs. "There, look, Sammy. Just like that. Here, you do it."_

_Dean flipped the blade around with expert fingers and extended the handle to his brother, watching him reach out, hesitate, and then curl his little hand around the handle, holding it awkwardly. He__'__d never been forced to learn to defend himself at a young age, and Dean hoped he never did. Sam didn__'__t deserve the shit he dealt with, from his dad, from school, from everyone he ever met. He stepped back to allow Sam room to shuffle forward, using both hands to hold the knife and he pressed it to the floor, a little distance from Dean__'__s initials, starting the slow curve of the letter S._

They were still there, that set of hastily scrawled initials carved into the floorboards, the crevices filled with dirt from over the years. He tried to keep this car as clean as possible, but this had managed to slip past him. Now, though, he paid careful attention to them, using a soft toothbrush to carefully brush out the dirt and dust before sweeping it all outside with a tiny hand broom his brother had stuck in the toolbox forever ago. Dean smiled fondly at the carved initials, remembering their promise afterwards that they were never going to leave one another. They'd stick together and travel and do whatever the hell they pleased, and that car would be their home away from home.

Of course, things changed when Sam went to Stanford.

Dean sighed softly and slid into the seat, pulling out the spare key from under the driver side and slipping it into the ignition smoothly, turning it just enough to turn on the air conditioner so he could listen to those stupid Lego blocks rattling around in there. He'd thought it was a good idea, putting them there, because at the time that was how he helped to fix the Impala, which had fallen into disrepair after his father started binge drinking. He glanced up to be sure that the two men who had come out with him were still over by the door, one wandering little circles in obvious boredom. All the better for him. It was best that they thought he only had one key, which was safely locked in a safe in the main office. He sadly turned Baby off again and replaced the key, securing it with great care.

Sam had helped with the "fixing" of the car back then, too. The evidence still remained in a little green army man who had been crammed into one of the ashtrays. They'd never bothered trying to remove it and now he brushed his fingertips over it longingly, his heart aching. He'd do anything to have that old life back, to have a chance to do something different, something good with himself.

_"Look, Dean," Sam was saying, tugging on Dean's sleeve as he pushed some stuffing back into the small tear on the edge of the seat. He had a small figurine in his hand, one of his army men he'd gotten ages ago for his birthday from Bobby, and Dean just watched him curiously as he wedged the little man right into one of the ashtrays, beaming up at him as if proud of his work. "Now he can protect it...and us. Right, Dean?"_

"Right, Sammy," Dean murmured, blinking back a bout of fresh tears threatening to spill over. He retracted his hand from the little toy with one last affectionate touch and shifted in the seat, laying over the cushions and heaving a sigh. He missed this, all the memories it held. The Impala, to them, was never just a car. Back when they were young, it was a promise of freedom. When Dean got his license, it _was _freedom, an escape from everything that got to him. He'd just drive aimlessly and for once in his life, he'd actually relax. When he and Sam had travelled around a bit together, it'd been their home, their trusty third wheel that would always be there. And now...now it was almost a memoir. With very little that held any kind of meaning to them, this was as good as it got. Especially now that his memory was beginning to blur a bit around the edges.

They did warn him that he'd start forgetting as a result of the alcoholism, but he didn't think it'd be so soon, and he didn't want to ever forget. What he did, that was something he'd never be able to repent for, not even when he went to hell. Maybe it would Sam who tormented him for eternity. God knew he deserved nothing less, because after all, it was his fault that Sam had ever even died. Otherwise, he'd be graduating college right about now, going to do his dream job and marry that girlfriend of his.

He could hear one of the orderlies calling him questioningly and he raised his hand in acknowledgement, taking a moment to regain his composure before sitting up with a soft groan. He'd started having a bit of abdominal pain, and it sometimes made it harder to do things as simple as pulling himself up or twisting his body. His medicine helped, but it wore off by the time evening rolled around. Dean climbed out of the car and looked it over, scowling at the dent still in the bumper, namely on the passenger side. He'd been able to replace the door, but hadn't had the time to scour places for the proper fitting bumper. Maybe he could coerce Bobby to check up on it for him? He did want to fix Baby up before he had to pass her on to someone else.

He'd already decided that Baby would go to Bobby; he'd never send her back to his drunkard father, who wouldn't even care to begin with. He'd be amazed if he even knew he car was gone, let alone Dean. But he knew for a fact that his surrogate father would take good care of the one treasured possession he had, and that set him at peace. He wanted to have the car in the best condition when that happened.

"You 'bout done for tonight?" the taller orderly asked, strolling over to him and looking over the car, clearly impressed with her. He got that look a lot. "It's almost time for dinner, and Doctor Gabriel wants you inside before dark." Dark? Dean glanced around, just now realising that it was turning dusk. He swore it'd been all sunshine just a half hour ago.

He really didn't want to go in, but he nodded lightly and stashed the tools back in the trunk, watching the man lock it and then double checking all the doors. It was the one last thing he had that was connected to Sam; he wasn't going to risk something happening to it. He couldn't lose him twice.

* * *

That evening, sleep didn't come easy. He tossed and turned in his bed, staring at one wall, then the ceiling, then the window, where moonlight poured in freely since he'd rolled up the shade. The blue light made his room seem almost ghastly, like something out of a cheesy horror film, where every corner had pitch shadows nesting in them, holding some unspeakable horrors. He knew there was nothing there, but Dean felt uneasy, a bit paranoid even. Sleep just wasn't in the cards tonight.

He reluctantly rolled out of bed, stretching his sore muscles and padding across the room into the bathroom. He couldn't sleep, so he might as well get himself cleaned up. He locked Castiel's door and cranked up the hot water in the tub, pulling a towel down from the shelf and draping it over the handlebar while he stripped. He still hated those stiff white clothes with a passion. After a moment Dean turned on the shower head, stepping in and drawing the dark curtain to help hold in the steam.

It felt blissful and for a moment he really regretted not just taking a nice, hot bath. He rarely indulged in things like that, so it would've been a treat to himself. The water was near scalding, turning his skin pink in seconds and burning almost uncomfortably. He just stood under the spray a long moment, letting it run down over him before he finally moved to get clean, taking more time to wash himself than he had in a long time. Everything was always a rush, but here, he wasn't exactly going anywhere so there was no reason he couldn't enjoy a couple things.

Of course, there was only so long a person could stay in the water before it was just enough. His fingers started getting a bit wrinkly by the time he decided to get out, reluctantly turning off the hot water and pulling in his towel so he could dry himself off. Part of him just wanted to crawl into bed in the nude, but he knew Meg wouldn't appreciate that one when she came to wake him for his medicine. So he dressed reluctantly in clean clothes, returning to the bathroom to brush his teeth before heading to bed for the night, and a good part of the morning if he could help it.

If there was one thing this place had done right, it was their choice of toothpaste. It was mint, pure and simple, without those fancy things like baking soda or whitener, things that didn't even work more than half the time. He squeezed some onto a toothbrush and stuck it in his mouth, turning on the sink tap to let it get really cold and looking up into the mirror, which was fogged from his hot shower. With one hand he scrubbed his teeth to remove the weird mix of bitter tastes from the day, and with the other he tried to wipe away enough of the condensation so he could catch a glimpse of himself, nearly choking on his toothbrush when he did.

It wasn't that he looked bad or anything—on the contrary, he still looked surprisingly healthy aside from the pallor his skin had taken on from being both sickly and cooped up—what had shocked him was what he could see standing _behind _him. Dean shook his head lightly, closed his eyes, and focused on his task at hand, careful not to let his gaze stray too high until after he'd spit and rinsed, and even then he was hesitant. His mind ran with memories of his mother talking about ghosts, and he was beginning to believe her, only about twenty years too late.

Nothing had changed. He could still see the figure in the mirror, slightly blurred from the lingering steam but definitely one he knew. Dean sucked in a deep breath, holding it and letting it out in a thin stream as he braved his fears and turned around. He was expecting him to be gone, but he could still see his brother, vivid like he was really standing there but clearly not there. He'd often heard that trauma caused people to see people they'd lost, and this was a prime example of how it was true. "Sam..?"

Maybe he'd just blacked out or something and was having one hell of a crazy dream. That was a lot more plausible than him saying he was seeing his little brother, who'd been gone a good couple of years. It was a bit late for trauma, though he supposed maybe it'd always been there, just that recent stress had brought it back. "Fucking perfect," he groaned, sinking down to sit on the toilet seat. "I'm losing my damn mind after all."


	5. Chapter 5

They'd decided to put him on some kind of anxiety medication in addition to his other pills. Meg had been the one to advise it after she, according to her, came to check on him and found him huddled up in the corner, shivering and looking as if he'd seen a ghost. Well, the thing was, he _had _seen a ghost: his brother. It was eerie as hell once he got past the initial surprise. All he did was stand there and look at him, talk without talking, and he seemed increasingly frustrated, to the point that after a couple days he lashed out at him. That was the night Meg had found him. He'd just panicked and his first thought was to hide away so he didn't have to face more anger. He'd had enough of that to last a lifetime and now from Sam, of all people? That hurt.

He'd also apologised to Meg for his behaviour, especially towards her. She was just trying to help his stubborn ass, and she didn't deserve his bitterness. He'd started realising that acting so hostile towards people was doing nothing but making him miserable, and if anything it made people worry more about him than they would've otherwise. So he'd dropped that entire act, told numerous more people he was sorry—except that therapist, because fuck him—and he had to admit, he felt...better. He'd started spending a bit of time with Charlie and Castiel at the woman's urging.

They were an awkward trio, but at the same time comfortable. He usually just sat there and kept to himself, listening to Charlie talk on and on about all kinds of matters, most of which were surprisingly very interesting to him, and Castiel...the guy never even made a sound, let alone speak. Nothing at all like the frantic, panicked man he'd heard his second week here, who locked himself up in his room and sometimes cried when nobody else was listening. Dean didn't know what the guy's deal was, but...he felt for him, and he wanted to try to comfort him even though he wasn't too good himself. It wasn't his place, though.

He couldn't help but notice that Castiel stared as much as, if not more than, he did. But unlike Dean, he didn't look away when he was caught. It was like he was studying him, trying to figure him out with just a look, seeing something deeper than the surface. Of course, that was just ridiculous. People couldn't understand others like that, and this man was clearly off his rocker. Hell, maybe when he stared at people he saw giant purple dinosaurs instead. He probably didn't understand half the shit Charlie was saying to him either. She was talking about something to do with space currently, and Dean was trying not to fidget under the scrutinising gaze boring into him.

"Charlie." Dean honestly started when Castiel suddenly turned to the girl and said her name, earning a questioning hum as she looked back over at him. They sat like that a moment, staring, and she nodded lightly, agreeing to whatever the hell she'd apparently realised he was asking for. Dean was lost, staring at her dumbly as she explained that they were going to go out to the garden and that he could come if he wanted. Part of him screamed at him to get up and go, but he just sat there and watched her help Castiel stand unsteadily, fiddling with the tubes that went to his rolling IV so they didn't tangle around his arm. "Goodbye, Dean."

"Huh? Oh—um, bye," he stammered out, pulling out of his little haze, feeling his cheeks burn as he dropped his gaze to the table until he knew they were gone and he was alone once more. It wasn't as relieving as it used to be. Dean was never a social butterfly, but he hated being by himself. He needed company, but he was specific about who it was. He always had been. Sam use to call him picky, and yeah, he was right. If he just got off his high horse and accepted whoever decided to approach him, things would be easier. But he was pretty sure he'd offended a vast majority of the patients in this ward, aside from his strange friends who forgave so easily.

Nothing made sense to him in this place. But then again, he was trying too hard to make it make sense in the way he was used to things. He wanted life to be difficult here when it really didn't have to be, because it was what he knew as familiar from growing up with a father like John. Dean wanted to be punished for his mistakes. The thing was...it wasn't necessary. None of this was. Maybe for once he should try to make something of himself. His death would hurt people if he did that, but deep down he knew it'd hurt regardless. People would wish they'd gotten to know him or talk to him and they'd always feel guilty over that. So at the least, he could soften the blow by giving them this: the satisfaction of having known him. And he didn't have to make himself miserable for five months.

Dean stood and pushed in his chair, rubbing his hand against his side absentmindedly to relieve the slight aching pain resting there, deep in his body. Even with the medicine he could feel it, though it usually wasn't very bad, so he just dealt and moved on. There'd come a time when he couldn't, but now was not that time. He took his tray up and emptied it in the trash, setting it on the counter with the others to be cleaned and taking his leave, cramming his hands in his pockets as he strolled down the bare halls, glancing out the windows he passed. In the centre of the wing there was a garden area, very beautiful and sunny, and every hallway in the giant square had a door leading out to it. Dean lingered by one such door, his fingers resting on the cold knob, itching to turn it but reluctantly pulling back. He had someone else he wanted to see first.

When she wanted to be, Meg was seriously hard to find. She had set rounds and although he knew them for emergency purposes, he could never seem to catch up to her. She was quick and efficient; usually he loved that, but now it was a little frustrating, because he needed her. Well, there was no use running around blindly if he had no idea where she was in her rounds, so Dean dejectedly returned to his bedroom. She'd come there soon enough to bring him medicine, and he could talk to her then. They were back on good terms so he didn't think she'd just brush him off and go.

To pass the time, Dean wrote more. He'd been in the middle of telling Sam about Castiel, and it surprised him how affectionate the tone of his words was. Sure, the guy was attractive in so many ways, but he didn't know him all that well—that was his own fault. It was probably just one of those infatuations people had with others they'd just recently met sometimes, just a fleeting interest. He'd had a couple of those in his time, and this was likely not different. Dean had never been in love with anyone; not legitimately, of course. He'd told Lisa he loved her because he felt obliged to say it back. That was all that whole relationship was. She made it feel like he owed her something even though she'd gone and cheated on him. Twice.

Scowling, Dean sat back in his chair with crossed arms and tried to brush that woman from his mind. He didn't want to think about her if he could help it. It'd just make him more depressed. He huffed and stood, stretching restlessly and walking over to the window so he could look out over the scenery. It actually was quite pretty around here, and he was secretly grateful he wasn't stuck staring down some brick wall for eternity. He'd rather die with something nice to look at, even if the sun was a pain about blinding him in the mornings. It was easy enough to roll over and fall right back asleep.

It was there that Meg found him, standing with his arms propped on the little window sill, staring outside wistfully. "It's nice, huh?" she asked softly, coming over to peek over his shoulder. "I always did like being out here; it's beautiful. Way better than the places closer to the city." So even the orderlies disliked having an overview of a busy street or a wall; who'd have thought? He didn't think they necessarily cared about how things were around here, since they got to go home come night—or morning in some of their cases. "Here, Dean. I brought you your medicine for this evening. You should spend some time outside tomorrow, since you're so fascinated. You look kinda pale."

Pale was nothing new for him, though he knew what she meant. His tone was bordering on unhealthy now, probably from a mix of the lack of eating as often as he should, not going out, and his illness. Maybe he should go to that little garden tomorrow. Castiel was usually there... "Hey, Meg," he began, pausing long enough to down his pills with a swallow of water first, "can you tell me about Castiel?"

"Him? Well, he's a patient, and your roommate—"

"No, like, _why _is he a patient?" He knew all of that other stuff, because it was obvious. He also knew the guy was sick; that had been abundantly clear from the moment he'd heard him in the hallway. He just wanted to know what was up with him, why he acted as he did so that maybe he could understand a little better as to why he could go from quiet and reserved to screaming and crying in the middle of the night. Not to mention the writing all over the walls. That was unnerving.

He could see Meg's hesitancy to answer his questions, and was just about to tell her never mind when she sighed softly and sat down on the edge of his bed, patting beside her so he'd join her. "Normally I wouldn't tell, but...I think it'll be good if you know, considering you've already stayed here so long and have been watching him for me. Everyone else requested to be moved after he started waking them up." He'd honestly considered it for a while, but it wasn't worth it to him to go through so much for a little quiet. "As I'm sure you've noticed, Castiel is sick. Physically, we don't know what's wrong with him, at least not in technical terms. There's no disease or condition that does to people what's happening to him. It's almost like his body has been slowly breaking itself down, like something's just eating it from the inside." Meg shook her head lightly, her expression one of confusion. She really had no idea either, though Dean would take any information he could get. He just wanted to know what he was dealing with before he got too wrapped up in this business.

"We've got him on medicine to help keep his blood sugar up, which seems to help a little, I guess. He doesn't just lay around anymore getting thinner, so that's an improvement, one of the only ones he's made." Well, Dean could understand now why Charlie kept trying to give Castiel her cookies or soda during meals. She must've already known all of this, or figured it out herself. She seemed like a very bright girl. "That's not really why he's here, though, most of it's mental...and that's a different beast entirely. Castiel...he's a schizophrenic."

So he was crazy. Dean had already assumed so, judging from the drawings all over his bedroom walls and the fact that he'd heard the guy ranting about stuff aloud, talking to people who weren't there. Not that he _should _judge, considering he was seeing his little brother wandering around even though he'd been dead a couple years. He really had no room to talk. "Aren't people like that usually...not like him? I mean I'm no expert, but he seems so calm and nice, I always thought..." He trailed off, waving his hand for emphasis.

Meg shook her head again, smiling sadly and crossing her legs, turning towards him a little more. "No, he's a sweetie, I meant it when I told you that before. Most the time, he's just like this, but he definitely has his moments, manic episodes where he yells at nobody and panics. He says he can hear angels—that he _is _one." Charlie had told him the same thing before, Dean realised. Maybe he'd have been inclined to humour the idea if it wasn't totally absurd. Angels didn't exist. If they did, surely they would've saved Sam. Dean had prayed, for fuck's sake, and he never prayed. If there was anything up there, any higher power, they would have saved the one person who deserved to live the most. Instead, _Dean_ had walked away with mild injuries: a broken bone and some cuts and bruises. "You'll notice that sometimes you don't see him for days. That's usually after an episode, because we have to get him some special treatment after that to pacify him. So if that happens, don't worry. He'll be back within a week."

He must've been gone for that when Dean first came here, when Charlie had asked if he'd seen the guy he didn't even know at the time. He'd honestly always been a little curious about that, but refused to let himself even consider asking until now. It hadn't ever been his place. Still wasn't, but he wanted to know. "I never would've thought that," he muttered, running over the facts in his head again. "Aside from the midnight awakenings, he's only ever been..._normal_."

"We're all normal here, Dean. Once you live or work in a place like this long enough, it really dawns on you that just because someone's sick doesn't make them a freak." Meg stood, brushing off her pants and smoothing a couple wrinkles. "If you'd give these people a chance, I think you'd see that it's not all that bad. Next time you get the chance, go outside with him. Talk to him. Just do something good with your time here." She leaned over to affectionately kiss his forehead, a contact he didn't shy away from, and let herself out of his room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He laid back on the bed slowly, staring up at the ceiling. He wouldn't be going to sleep for quite a while now. His mind had too much to sort out.

* * *

A couple days later, Dean found himself standing at that door leading to the garden once again, his hand resting on the cool knob but not turning it. Castiel was alone out there—he'd looked through the window to be sure, not wanting intrude if he was with Charlie—sitting on the grass, looking around him happily and occasionally saying something, too quietly for Dean to possibly hear. He remembered what Meg had told him to do, and he was going to go for it. They got along well enough, so what could this hurt? Maybe it'd be awkward, but he was willing to try it out. Besides, he really ought to go outside and get some sun.

Letting out a long sigh, he pushed in the door and stepped out into the enclosed garden, immediately greeted by a gust of fresh air, warmed by the summer sun. He wandered aimlessly across the small space, trying not to appear like he was purposely going for Castiel even though he really wanted to just make a beeline for him. He didn't know why, but he was almost nervous to come out here to talk with him. "Hello Dean," he was greeted as soon as he'd gotten within a couple feet of him, Castiel smiling softly up at him.

"Hey Cas, how's—"

"Castiel."

"Pardon?" Dean looked at him questioningly as he settled down on the ground in front of him, sitting cross-legged and resting his idle hands in his lap.

"My name. It's Castiel. I don't need a pet name." Well, okay then. Cas was a hell of a lot easier to say than Castiel in his opinion, but if the guy was against nicknames and Dean didn't want to just give up on talking with him, he'd go with it. Full name it was, he supposed. At least for the time being.

"Okay then, Castiel," Dean relented, smiling sheepishly and picking at the seam of his pants when they lapsed into silence. Neither one talked all that much, really, and he had no clue what to even say to him. He seemed so out of touch with reality sometimes that Dean wasn't sure he'd know half of what he was talking about. "You come out here a lot, don't you?"

He nodded, not bothering to lift his eyes from the task he'd started when Dean sat down, plucking the little white and purple flowers from around him and twisting them together so they'd stay, creating a rather long chain. He'd seen girls do it before but didn't really understand what it was they were trying to do. "It's quiet here," the man said softly after a moment, smiling a bit. "That, and there's bees." He nodded his head towards one of the patches of yellow flowers, where the little buzzing creatures were busy floating around. He wouldn't have taken Castiel for an insect-lover, but hell, he could like whatever he wanted to like. Who was Dean to judge that kind of thing?

Personally, he disliked them. He'd been stung by flying things far too many times to be even moderately comfortable around them, but Castiel didn't seem bothered, even when one flew over right next to them to inspect the tiny flowers while Dean leaned away, resisting the urge to swat it away. He didn't want to offend Castiel or anything, not when he was taking this chance to talk to him and not being rejected. "I don't really do animals," he muttered. Sam had always had a liking for dogs and had begged for years to get one, but they never had. He wondered idly if he would've gotten one when he and Jessica, Sam's long time girlfriend, got married. "They never seemed to like me very much."

"I'm sure they did," Castiel assured him, almost as if he knew that for a fact. What, could he talk to animals now? Maybe it was an angel thing, hell if Dean knew. He certainly did seem to be at peace with this place in a weird kind of way. "Animals are timid, you know. Hesitant to approach anything they find threatening, and quick to bolt. Like you."

Like him..? Dean had a snarky comment for him, but he held his tongue because really...it made sense. He'd been avoiding everyone here for fear of commitment, and he supposed it was just that obvious. Well, he _had _kind of gone out of his way to be alone. He felt like some caged animal here and would much rather sit in the back of his cell than even attempt befriending anything that could potentially hurt him or be hurt by him. But he wasn't about to let Castiel know that he thought this way. By all means, he should be offended for being compared to a creature.

"Hey, Cas, just what do you mean by—"

"Here." Castiel gestured him forward and despite himself Dean leans towards him, closing his eyes out of reflex and taking a deep breath. The wind was blowing just right so he got a whiff of his scent, which was strong with soap and some kind of familiar spicy tinge. It was pleasant and he caught himself even trying to get closer, but before he got a chance, he felt something being set on his head and curiosity took over. He straightened up and lifted his hands to touch the foreign object, finding it kind of soft to the touch yet a little prickly all at the same time, like blade of grass. It dawned on him then: Castiel made him a damn flower crown like they were teenage girls or something. "And it's still Castiel."

It was too cute. Dean couldn't be mad at him, or even mildly disgruntled. Part of him really still wanted to be, but he simply couldn't. Nobody could. "Hmm, what's this?" he hummed thoughtfully, lips turning up in a small smile. "Flower crown? Never had one before. Thank you, _Castiel." _The dark haired man smiled in return, and he realised that he really liked seeing him smile. Not the fake, tight-lipped smiles he more often than not gave people, but something genuine, meaningful. And he wanted to see more of it. He was glad he'd decided to stop being such an asshole, because even though they were still in the awkward stages of a starting friendship, he could tell they'd get along.

He wasn't quite sure how long they sat there in comfortable silence, Castiel watching the busy little bees and Dean watching Castiel, but it seemed too short a time. "I think it's going to storm," the man eventually said, his voice quiet and his tone bordering on nervous. He looked a little discomforted by the darkened clouds rolling over the hospital, and even Dean had to say that it looked particularly nasty. "We should go in." He agreed and stood slowly, his knees popping in complaint, and offered his hands to help Castiel up, leaning down to free his rolling IV from the little indentation its wheel had gotten stuck in. As if on cue with their decision, the sky crackled with thunder and they were granted a very sudden rain shower.

When Dean ran, he was fast. He'd been a high school track star, nicknamed "Gazelle" because he was just that fast. He could have been inside in seconds and saved from getting soaked, but...he wasn't alone, and he couldn't leave Castiel. The guy wasn't exactly capable of running in his condition and he really didn't want to just abandon him out here. What if he couldn't get the door to open, or tripped? He'd get hurt and Dean would feel awful for the rest of forever. He stuck with him, going a little ahead of him so he could hold open the door, and then the two of them stood in the empty hall, soaked and shivering, staring at each other.

Castiel laughed. He couldn't recall the last time he'd heard something so beautiful, and it caught him off guard. He seemed like such a serious, depressed kind of guy, he just didn't think he would laugh like this, so carefree. Nor had he thought he'd made him a damn flower crown, which was still on his head, probably flattened by the force of the rain. Castiel was such a mystery to him and quite frankly, he loved it. "What're you laughing at, jerk?" Dean grumbled, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his attempt to sound grumpy. He gently punched him in the arm. "Come on, you're soaked. We gotta get you dried off, man."

"You are too," Castiel pointed out as the pair began walking down their hall, ignoring the looks they got as they passed rooms with other patients. Those people, they didn't matter to him right now. They'd probably be the rumour of the whole place for the evening, but Dean didn't mind. "You didn't have to wait for me, you know. You're still healthy enough to run..."

"Which is why I didn't," he replied coyly. He probably shouldn't have risked catching a cold, but something about Castiel made him want to help him, to just be around him. "You're not. I didn't wanna just leave you out there...and besides, it was more fun this way, no? Though now we gotta worry about drying off and changing." And it hadn't dawned on him until then, but Meg had mentioned once that more often than not, Castiel needed help with things like clothes. She said it was like he couldn't figure out how to get it on right, and that he generally lacked the energy to really attempt. He hadn't seen his nurse since that morning, and the orderlies were tied up with the massive group in the lounge, who were freaking out about the thunder—he could hear them in the background, they were that loud. "Speaking of, are you gonna need—"

"Yes." Well, that answered that question. Castiel, he'd noticed, had tendencies to just answer things before they were asked, like he could tell what the question would be before it even left someone's mind. If he was honest, it was a little eerie. "I'm sure we can find Meg..." The way he said her name was affectionate, and for a split second he entertained the notion that there was something between them. They certainly seemed to be close. Should that have made him feel a little jealous?

Dean coughed awkwardly and glanced over at him, hoping that he wasn't blushing even though he felt heat in his cheeks. "Meg's pretty busy, Castiel..."

"Oh."

"But I'm not, and it's not like you got anything I don't know about. Just, um, just 'cause we're both guys and all." _Shit, _he sounded so stupid. He was fairly certain Castiel wasn't aware he'd seen him naked and here he was making everything sound really suspicious. God, he hoped he didn't think he was making a move, he just wanted to help. "I mean, I'd be willing to help you, if you wanted."

There was an audible pause between them and Dean kept his eyes strictly on the floor, waiting for him to point out how he sounded like a moron or to say it was a stupid suggestion, to put him down in any way like everyone else eventually did. He was so prepared for something bitter that when he felt cool, gentle fingers touch his arm, he flinched, jerking his head up to look at Castiel, who didn't seem taken aback by his reaction to him. "Yeah, I'd be thankful for your help," he told him, smiling softly. "It's a bit hard to do much, I've got all these tubes..."

It took him a moment to really register that he'd accepted the offer, of all things. It was stupid, probably kind of intrusive; why did he say yes? Still, some part of Dean was thankful for that. He finally had a couple friends in here, and he didn't want to risk messing things up with them, namely this man. Something about him just intrigued him so. It was like there was something more to him than anyone could see and Dean was oddly determined to figure it out.

"Right, I just don't see how in hell you function with those things in. They're horrid," Dean complained, recalling his bad memory of waking up and ripping his own from his wrist. They didn't necessarily hurt, but at the same time, they so did, namely when he moved. So he was certain Castiel didn't have a good time getting changed, if not just because of that reason. "Just...don't pull them out again, okay?" As annoying as he knew they were, Meg had told him that Castiel was sick and really needed whatever medicine the things were getting in his system. He himself had seen that he blacked out if he didn't have that, so Dean wasn't willing to risk injury to him. He just hoped he would actually listen to him. Castiel certainly didn't have a reason to, but nevertheless, he so hoped he would. For his own sake.

Much to his relief the guy nodded again, tenderly touching the area around his tubes and bandages with a soft sigh. "Okay," he relented, "I'll leave them in—on one condition." Dean cocked an eyebrow, having not taken him for a bribing kind of guy. Well, he could do whatever he wanted, and Dean would play along with the game quite willingly.

"One condition, huh? I can handle that."

"Come stay out in the garden with me more often, and I'll leave them alone. Promise." Castiel paused outside Dean's bedroom door, turning towards him and lifting a hand to extend it to him, his pinky outstretched. He was seriously so childish, it was precious. People like this used to bother him so much, but somehow it was perfectly okay with it being this person in particular. Dean laughed and obliged, reaching up to hook his pinky with his, grinning.

"Promise."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the wait on this chapter, guys! I've been hella sick (go team Bronchitis!) and haven't been able to do much. I hope it's worth the wait and thanks for sticking it out :)


	6. Chapter 6

"Jesus, what do you weigh? Like, ten pounds? At most?"

It'd been a week since their promise, and Dean was living up to his word. It was fun, spending time with Castiel. It was like he could finally just relax and feel light again, like he had been before the accident and before this whole terminal illness business, when he and Sam lived with Bobby and had a normal family. They'd been sitting out here a majority of the day, picking four leafed clovers out of the massive patch—"Dean, that's just a three leafed one with one leaf torn," Castiel had pointed out to him, and he'd promptly stuck his tongue out at him like a petulant child—and talking about all sorts of things. Conversation came easy with him now that Dean was past his stage of trying to be a royal ass to everyone, and he just legitimately enjoyed his company. Sometimes, it was easy to forget where he was.

Other times, there were constant reminders that they were here and they were sick, like the fact that Castiel was damn near weightless. He found that one out when he pulled him to his feet and accidentally pulled him right into his chest. He'd noticed before, when he picked him up that day a couple weeks back, that the guy was light, but Dean just assumed it was because he wasn't exactly a weakling and a lot of things had always seemed lighter for him. But now he knew for certain that it wasn't just him. Dean looked down at the flustered man worriedly, very tempted to reach up and brush his dark hair from his face but refraining, loosening his hold on his biceps so he could step back.

"Sorry, Dean," Castiel apologised sheepishly, picking at his shirt as he often did when he was nervous, which he'd learned was often. "I wasn't really prepared for that, that's all." Yeah, right. He'd been totally prepared to get up, stretching his hands up to him for assistance and everything. If he hadn't been expecting to be pulled up, there was a bit of a problem, because that was kind of a universal sign.

Dean shook his head and crammed his hands in his pockets, looking him over. Castiel was so slight, it just wasn't funny. He had a nice build, but whatever sickness he had seems to have just drained him of everything. There wasn't a scrap of fat on him, and hardly any meat, either. It honestly worried Dean to see him so slim, even though he knew he couldn't exactly do much to fix that. Well, there was one idea, but it'd likely get them into trouble. It would be worth it, though. Maybe he should consider it a little more.

"No, seriously. Do you eat?" He knew he did, because he'd seen him, but it never seemed to be all that much or if it was, it was always something like a salad or yogurt, healthy things. "When we get out I so need to just go get you a really massive cheeseburger, with pickles and lettuce, and _bacon. _All the good stuff. You could use like ten of those." He nodded his approval and cracked a grin, despite the heavy truth that they weren't getting out. Still, maybe the burgers could be reality. Bobby was allowed to visit him, and he'd written the head doctor to say he'd be coming up next month when his shop wasn't busy... Well, it was worth a shot, but they needed to figure something out in the meantime.

Castiel returned the smile and started across the garden slowly, gently touching Dean's hand to pull him from his little world and get him to come along with him. They were supposed to go to their stupid group depression therapy. He still hated that place, though it was more bearable when Castiel went. He sat between Dean and Charlie now, and they'd always lean over him to talk amongst themselves. The therapist didn't seem too pleased to have side conversations, but he hadn't tried to stop them. It wasn't like any of them shared with the group to begin with, nor did they listen, so they weren't really missing out on anything. In fact, the therapist had even given up on asking Dean about his 'story.' That as likely helped along by the fact that he cussed him out every time he asked, of course. What could he say, he didn't like prying.

Dean whined the entire way to the room, asking if they really _had _to go or if they could just skip, but he quieted the instant he touched the doorknob, resuming his silent, stoic demeanour he liked to show these people. He refused to show the slightest bit of weakness to anyone. They didn't really care how he was feeling, what was going on in his head. And if they knew, they'd lock him up for real, or start sending him away like Castiel for 'special treatment.' That just didn't sound good to him. He'd prefer to keep everything locked up, away from prying eyes and judgements made by people who didn't have a damn right in the first place. They'd berate him for being depressed, no doubt. Tell him "it's just a phase" and that "he needs to get over it." That was how people who didn't understand worked. Yeah, so, he wasn't talking. Thankfully, the meeting was over quickly when someone got sick and they were all dismissed.

That night, after all the patients had retired to their rooms and most the orderlies had gone home, Dean slid out of bed and tiptoed across his room, opening the bathroom door so he could go over to Castiel's room. His walls still freaked him out a bit, but if he didn't pay too much attention to it, it wasn't so bad. He felt oddly safe in here, in fact. "Cas, buddy, wake up," he whispered, nudging his friend, who grumbled in his sleep. Dean smirked; it was cute. "Caaaas, hey, lazy-ass, get up. We got things to do." Another grumpy response. "_Caaaaaassssssssss—"_

Well, that woke him up. Dean was definitely a pro at annoying people until they were willing to get up just so he'd hush. He had to do that to Sam in the mornings when they had school, leaning over him and drawing out his name in ridiculous voices for five straight minutes. "_Dean," _Castiel growled warningly, his voice thick with sleep. "Why in my Father's name are you waking me up? And it's still Castiel." Dean laughed. The fact that he was still grumbling about that even though he was barely conscious was precious. Really, it was.

"I got a plan, and you're gonna love it." He was so pumped for this. He couldn't do a whole lot to help Castiel, but he knew he could do this. He'd talked to Meg, totally gave up his entire plan to her—she hadn't seemed at all bothered, and even supported his idea—to ensure that the places they needed to get into wouldn't be locked up. As it turned out, the only things that got locked were all doors to other wings in the hospital and the ones that lead outside. Though after inspecting the knob when he was alone in the hall, he realised they would be very easily picked. "C'mon sleepy head, get up! They're gonna make rounds soon, we can't be in the halls when they do."

Castiel just looked at him quizzically and Dean sighed, reaching down to grab his arms and pull him up into a sitting position, smirking triumphantly when he seemed annoyed and sat himself up the rest of the way, sliding his feet out of the covers to hang off the bed. He helped untangle the IVs for the millionth time and then the two of them crept back into Dean's room, since his door was freshly oiled and didn't squeak. To ensure that the angel kept up, he grabbed his hand and help it tight in his, offering him a confident grin before they set off. They could only go so fast thanks to the little roller carrying the IV bags and the fact that Castiel wasn't really well enough, but that didn't matter.

It was kind of fun. Dean kind of got the feeling that, as they were creeping down the halls as quietly as possible and sticking to the shadows, they were just like a pair of spies going on some crazy recon mission that was just going to prove to not be very effective in the end. He snickered softy at the idea of them being some kind of stealthy ninja squad and kept moving, peeking around the corners and darting across the span of archways where the halls intersected, just generally enjoying this. It was like being a teenager again and getting up to creep around the house for midnight snacks. And the orderlies were perpetually grumpy parents who would send them to bed if they got caught. "Quiet, Castiel," he warned, and the man behind him scoffed softly.

"Right, you're the one giggling over there," he grumped, a smile toying with the corner of his mouth regardless of the attitude, and Dean had to hold back a laugh, just grinning coyly instead. Castiel was nothing if not quiet; it was kind of unnerving at first, the way he'd stare and never even open his mouth, but he'd gotten used to it. And truth be told, he liked when those straying blue eyes found their way to him. Dean was confident about himself, enough that he didn't shy away from his gaze, and had taken to even doing something a little risqué when he found him watching, just to tease him. He didn't even know what Castiel was into, but he certainly hadn't told him to stop. So he wasn't going to.

Dean stuck his tongue out at him as an afterthought and peeked down another hall, listening closely before nodding. He hadn't heard any footsteps and all the orderlies just about caused earthquakes when they walked, so the coast was clear. And the door to the cafeteria was unlocked, as promised. "Dean? What're we _doing?" _Castiel asked quietly, following him in and behind the serving lines that were so similar to that of a school, aside from the fact that they fed themselves. There were people assisting, of course, for those who were a bit more disabled, but for the most part they could still do it all themselves.

He waited until he was pulling open the heavy wooden door to the kitchen to answer him, deeming it finally time to let him in on this big plan of his. He'd been thinking about it since realising how thin Castiel was. "We," he began, beaming, "are gonna get a midnight snack. A very unhealthy one that's no doubt gonna make us gain some pounds, and it's gonna be delicious." Dean poked his stomach as he spoke for emphasis, ignoring the way it was kind of pudgy while the rest of him was more toned. He didn't like that he was soft there, but what could he say, he'd never been into denying himself food when he wanted it, or what he wanted, and exercise wasn't in the cards for him. Mechanic work was the most he ever did. He'd tried running with Sam and it nearly made him have an asthma attack, and Dean didn't even have asthma.

"So, whaddya want, darlin'? We can make sandwiches, ice cream...whatever you want." Castiel looked around nervously, wrapping his arms around himself like he was cold—and he likely was. Dean sidled up to him and draped an arm over his shoulders casually, ignoring the way his heart skipped excitedly in his chest. "The choices are kinda unlimited, but none of that healthy shit. You need something fattening because look at you, you're all skin and bones, man."

Castiel scoffed and blushed—he actually _blushed, _turned red and everything, and it was so _adorable—_glancing up at him. "What about...ice cream? It seems like a good thing, and I've never had it before."

Dean looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. "What, never?" He nodded. "That's a crime, Castiel. How could you not have ice cream? We are _so _fixing this." Determined, he pulled away from the man, actually taking a minute to look back towards the office so he could bring up this big, fleecy coat to drape over Castiel so he didn't freeze himself to death, and then went to the cooler to get this started. "Hmm...chocolate, that's a good one. And—ooh, strawberry cheesecake! I know they haven't put this sucker out on the line. Yeah, we're gettin' these two. That okay with you?" Dean looked over questioningly and Castiel nodded, his expression unsure. He was certain he'd like these, because who didn't? There were people, he was sure, but they were all weirdos.

It took some time to dig around and find the styrofoam bowls and plastic utensils, as well as the metal ice cream scoop, but they had time to waste. Orderlies didn't do room checks at night or anything, simply because people never tried to get out or did what they did. Most were too crazy too, or just too sick. They were probably the only two who would dare do this kind of thing—and come morning, if there was any evidence left lying around, he had no doubt they'd be the ones suspected. Not that Dean minded getting in a little trouble with the head doctor or anything. So long as they didn't try to move him to a different room or even to a different ward, he'd be okay with whatever. They could even forbid him from going out to work on Baby. It was starting to get very chilly, anyway. Soon, he'd be stuck indoors.

At least now that he had Castiel and Charlie, the thought wasn't so unbearable.

"So, what's up with you anyway, man? Like, why're you here?" Dean knew why he was here, he'd just like to hear his side of the story. Maybe it registered entirely different in his head or something; they guy _was _a bit off his rocker, not that he minded that. He rather liked the childish behaviour.

"You've wanted to ask that for a while."

It wasn't a question, but a statement, and one he couldn't honestly deny. He'd been trying not to be rude and to him, that had seemed like prying at the time considering they weren't all that close. They'd only recently gotten to be friends. "Well, yeah. I'm curious. How 'bout this, you tell me why you're here, and I'll tell you why _I'm _here. Deal?" Dean paused in the middle of pulling off the ice cream lid, glancing up at him seriously. He'd leave out details, of course, but he could tell him the gist of why he was in the psycho ward.

Castiel seemed thoughtful for a moment before nodding, pulling over one of the desk chairs so he could sit while Dean worked. That was probably for the best, given the guy's weak nature. "Deal." Dean was about to offer to go first, since it was only fair, but Castiel just continued as if he hadn't paused. "I'm here for protection. It's the only place they haven't found me."

"They?"

"The angels." Oh. Of course it was angels. Well, that was fitting for him, he supposed. "You've seen the symbols in my room...?" Dean nodded lightly, turning his attention back to the task at hand, picking up the scoop and dipping it into the ice cream. He didn't want to risk giving Castiel too much sugar since he was hypoglycaemic, a word he'd learned courtesy of Meg, but he'd give him a decent amount. "Those are wardings, to keep the angels from being able to locate me here."

That kind of explained the massive symbols. Dean had heard of a lot of tribes paintings crazy things on their walls to keep ghosts and spirits at bay, and he just figured this was no different. Castiel kind of had the stereotypical look of a native, all tanned skin and dark hair, maybe he was descended from some group and the beliefs had been passed down too? Hell, he didn't know, nor did he really care. He liked the guy regardless. "What about when you're outside, or in the halls? This place isn't...'warded.'"

He smirked and pulled the jacket a little tighter around himself, glancing around the room again as if checking to ensure they were alone. There was no way the orderlies knew they were out and about. "I have personal wards. Carvings in my bones, and what you all call tattoos." A tattoo? Dean had missed that, and his curiosity was immediately piqued. So was his horror, though, at the mention of carvings.

_"Carvings? _Jesus, Castiel, what the hell... You know, never mind. Don't tell me how those got there." He was certain he didn't want to know. It was likely to be some gruesome story. They could save it for a time when they weren't eating. "Okay, well, why are the angels chasing you to begin with? I mean, what, are you some sort of heavenly rebel?"

To his surprise, the guy nodded. He'd been joking about that, but...it was true? If Heaven was real, did they even _have _rebels, aside from Lucifer and his followers? Dean always imagined everyone as willy-nilly goody two shoes, with harps and white robes and these great, massive wings. Not as someone who looked so obviously human. Though in his imagination, he kind of thought Castiel would look great with wings, not big fluffy white ones, but maybe some kickass, sleek black ones. Yeah, he liked that. Made Dean wish he could draw worth a shit. That would've been a great picture. It'd be the one gift he'd be able to give him before he inevitably died.

"They didn't like my methods; they were too humane, I suppose. The angels in charge now, they're brutes, only concerned with power. I lead a rebellion against them, they won. I'm a fallen angel." Castiel shrugged lightly, and Dean had to say he sounded very believable, despite the nature of the story. He _wanted _to believe him. "They're trying to round us up for execution. So I hid myself. That's mainly why I'm here. And you, Dean?"

It was obvious he didn't want to talk about that anymore, so Dean would willingly switch subjects if only to make him comfortable despite his curiosities. He didn't want to pry or scare off his one interest in this hellhole. Though, maybe he'd do that anyway in the long run. Dean was a ticking time bomb. "I'm depressed," he muttered with a shrug, extending a bowl out towards him. "Suicidal. Terminal. And it doesn't bother me."

That was honestly the first time he could recall seeing Castiel so genuinely surprised, like he just hadn't even considered the notion of him feeling that way. It was the truth. He'd miss his newfound friends, yeah, but in the end Dean still wanted to leave this world. It didn't hold much promise for him anymore. Castiel, Charlie and Meg were daily reasons to be happier, but nothing could patch the gaping hole in his chest where he was sure there used to be a heart. He was just distracting himself until the time came—roughly four, four and a half months.

"I don't understand," Castiel said, narrowing his eyes at him in confusion as he reached out to take the little styrofoam bowl. "Why would that not bother you, Dean? You have a life to live, shouldn't you want to live it? This world is beautiful and so...amazing. I just can't see why you wouldn't want to."

Dean shrugged again. Maybe he'd tell him his reasons, but it wouldn't be today. He wasn't feeling up to having a heart to heart. "Yeah, and I can't see why you'd wanna stay here," he countered, realising a second too late that he sounded really snippy. He didn't want to be rude to him, not again. "Sorry. It's just...difficult. The whole situation, it's something I really don't wanna drag you into, man. I just don't deserve it, living. Trust me on that one. Now, how 'bout we put this stuff up and get the hell outta here before you freeze?"

They could easily hide the trash in the bathroom garbage can; Meg was unlikely to breathe a word about it to anyone. Dean really liked that girl. If only he could have met these people under better circumstances. Oh well. It was what it was. "Okay," Castiel relented, pushing his chair back and returning the coat to the peg Dean had pulled it from. He really did look cold, even kind of pale for him. Luckily, Dean's room was perpetually warm.

"C'mon. I've got an extra blanket, we can chill in my room tonight and talk. Whatever you want."

* * *

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Beside him, Castiel sighed softly and shifted, and Dean glanced over at him. They were lying on the floor, staring out his window at the night sky, which was the darkest of blues and littered with silver stars. They'd been talking for a while, but the past half hour or more had been silent. Until now. "Do you miss your home?" Castiel asked, never pulling his gaze away from the outside. He seemed infatuated with the sky in general, always looking out windows and staring up at it when he was in the garden until the sun blinded him. Dean didn't get him sometimes. "Do you ever just wish you could go back?"

Now, that depended on what home he was referring to. His dad's place, back in Colorado where he and Sam had been born? Or Bobby's house, the scrapyard over in Kansas where they'd grown up? For the first, no, he never wanted to go back there, but the second...yeah, maybe it'd be nice to go back. He missed the old man a lot more than he was willing to let on. But he wasn't getting out of here, so wishing was futile. At least he was going to come visit him. And he could introduce Bobby to Castiel. He was fairly certain they'd get along, in a weird sort of way.

"Yeah, I do, Cas. Sometimes I really just wish I could go back and redo everything, fix my mistakes so I didn't end up...well, like I am." Sam wouldn't have been dead, and Bobby wouldn't be losing both his kids, the only family he had after his wife had died. Dean had loved Karen. She made the best pie on earth, he swore it. "I was stupid, made some bad choices. Someone I love died because of me. The other, he's gonna be heartbroken. They didn't deserve that. So, yeah, I wish I could go home, but I really don't think I've earned that. Heh, when I die, I'm probably goin' to Hell, if it even exists."

The other man was silent, and Dean just shifted his gaze back to the window. It was getting colder; he wouldn't be able to do this soon. Nor would they be allowed to go out into the garden. Dean was going to be sick enough soon and he really didn't want Castiel becoming ill, not with whatever mystery disease was eating away at his body. The last thing he wanted was to lose him. And that was a totally selfish, unfair desire.

"I think you deserve to go to Heaven," Castiel told him quietly after a long pause, the conviction in his voice leaving Dean totally unable to argue. He sounded so certain, like it was all he believed without doubt and he couldn't—wouldn't—crush that. Internally, though, he knew where he was going. After all he'd done, he belonged in a place of suffering, and he welcomed the day of his death, despite knowing it would hurt a few more people than originally intended. And yet, somehow, part of him hoped Castiel was right about that. Dean was a mess inside.

He rolled onto his side to face Castiel, who was illuminated by the moonlight, just as gorgeous as when he'd first seen him. He really did seem like the kind of guy who could be an angel. Just give him wings and a halo, he'd be perfect. Yeah, Dean wished he could draw. He sighed softly and leaned over him, kissing his forehead softly. "Thanks, Cas."

Castiel didn't even bother correcting him this time. He just smiled, curled up on his side, and bid Dean goodnight.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean had blood on his pillow.

Now, he was no medical expert or anything, but he was fairly certain that when a person awoke, they were not supposed to find bright red spattered over their white pillowcase, nor was there to be more of that thin, red liquid at the corner of their mouth after they stumbled into the bathroom to look in the mirror. Dean's heart thudded away in his chest as he opened his mouth, looking as closely as he could to see if maybe he'd bitten his cheek. He felt around with his tongue and even prodded the skin with a fingertip, but he couldn't find any abrasions to speak of. He was left wondering just where that blood had come from, until as if on cue, he was seized by a small coughing fit that had him spitting up more into the sink basin.

He watched the water swirl the red down the drain and just blinked, gripping the sides of the basin tightly. The doctors had told him the coughing was likely just from the cold he'd managed to catch a week after the weather took a turn and dipped into that of winter. It'd only been two weeks since his escapade with Castiel, and now all of this? Well...he _did _only have three months left. The symptoms were bound to start sometime, and the pain had already increased a little since his diagnosis. The question now, though, was what to do? Should he tell Meg, or keep it to himself? What could they do aside from give him more pills? Still, he didn't want to be bleeding if they could do anything to help.

He hurriedly brushed his teeth and tongue thoroughly, erasing as much of the metallic taste as he could, and then made his way back to his room to dress and pull off the pillow case. He didn't want to stain the actual pillow, though there was a slight pink tinge to it now. Dean groaned softly and sat on the bed, and all he could do was to wait for his nurse to bring him his medicine so he could let her in on this discovery. The entire time, his stomach was twisting into knots and he wasn't sure why. Didn't this just mean he was closer? He should have been okay with it, then. Dean did want this still, that hadn't changed...

"Meg!" Dean perked up a bit after she walked into the room, holding two cups of pills, one of which was marked with a C, most likely for Castiel. Both were on a lot of medication in an attempt to keep them healthier. She came over to him, setting the other cup down on his nightstand so she could pick up his water and offer both things to him. He released the pillow cover long enough to take the cups, down his pills, and set both down again.

"Hey, um, Meg?" he murmured, glancing up at her.

"Yes, darling?"

He picked up the cover and offered it out to her, watching her take it with a very confused expression. "I woke up and that was there," he explained quietly when she turned it over and noticed the blood staining the cloth. There was no immediate shift in emotion visible on her face, and he idly wondered if it was as bad as he though it was. Maybe he'd seen too many movies and this wasn't anything but typical symptoms, not a reason to be alarmed. "I mean, is it normal? I wouldn't know, I'm not a doctor or anything...and it doesn't hurt, it's just...concerning."

She looked at him for a long moment, then at the pillowcase, and then simply smiled gently, stepping forward to kiss his forehead. "Yeah, you're gonna be fine," she assured him, ruffling his hair. She rolled up the bloodied cover and tucked it under her arm, collected the cups from the nightstand, and left him to his business. Dean just watched her go, and then shook his head lightly, a slight smile playing over his lips. He wasn't a moron, and he knew she was lying to him. The worry had been evident in the way she looked at him. But somehow, he was thankful for it, that little white lie. It was a cover for the truth that he hadn't even realised he might want. He could be oblivious a little longer, then. He didn't have to tell Castiel. That was what he most worried about. How would he even respond to news like that? Dean had mentioned being terminal once before, but he didn't think he'd really caught that, or maybe he didn't think it was as bad as it was. Whatever the case, he wanted him to remain in that mindset.

Dean sighed softly and slid off the bed, stretching out his stiff muscles and wincing when there was a pulling pain in his lower abdomen. The medicine would kick in soon enough and he wouldn't even feel it. He just had to keep himself occupied until then, do something to ease the overall tension in his body that grew a little worse with every passing day. He wasn't sure if it was a physical thing at this point, or if it was maybe caused by all the stress he was dealing with, with the therapy and all the medicine, and his growing attachment to his friends. It was likely a combination of all of that. Man, he could use a massage about now.

The closest he'd get in this place, however, was a hot shower. Not that that was at all a bad thing. Seriously, there was amazing water pressure and he was sure he spent a solid half hour just standing there with his back to the shower head, letting the tension just wash out of him. He didn't want to be all uptight today, because he was supposed to have a special visitor. Bobby was going to be coming a little sooner than expected, and he was bringing him a couple things. Dean had been told the other day that he was allowed to have some personal things back, since he wasn't considered dangerous to himself and had been on good behaviour. He'd laughed, because he immediately thought of the midnight adventure that nobody had ever found out about. He'd heard the kitchen staff griping about some of the desserts missing, but nothing ever came of it. He assumed they didn't know.

After drying off and getting dressed, Dean went down to the dining area to find Castiel. The guy didn't always eat, but he never seemed to miss going there at meal times, if only to sit with him and Charlie. Of course, the two of them were forever trying to push food onto him, so things all worked out. It was a very elaborate conspiracy to help him actually gain a pound; he was so light it really wasn't even funny. It was concerning, and he couldn't help but wonder what would happen when he wasn't around anymore. Meg would take care of him. She did seem fond of Castiel, and he completely understood why now.

"Hey," he greeted his friends as he strode over to join them, sliding into the seat across from Charlie and setting his plate down. They had pancakes by some strange miracle, and he wasn't passing up on that offer. Neither was Castiel, judging from the syrupy plate sitting half-empty in front of him. "Heh, the angel likes sweet things. Who'd've thought?"

"I like a lot of things, Dean," he replied coolly, cocking an eyebrow at him while he just grinned.

"Oh?" he challenged, "Like what?"

Now, he should have known that a guy like that wasn't going to back down from any kind of challenge. For the most part, nothing even seemed to make him nervous. Dean had helped him change once for crying out loud and he hadn't so much as blushed. Castiel gave him a smug look and started listing things off, holding up a finger for every thing he added. "Well, I like sweet things, the garden, bees, the sky, stars, birds, green, you..." It was his turn to blush, and judging from the way Charlie cracked up, he must've been pretty red. He probably didn't even mean it that way, and here Dean was getting flustered over something simple. "Shall I continue?"

"N-no, that's good," he stuttered, shaking his head and quickly diverting his attention to his food, poking at the pancake with his fork. He'd nearly drowned the thing in syrup. What could he say, he was a bit of a glutton for good things, and these were definitely good. Homemade, too, from the taste. His mother used to make them every weekend when he was younger as a treat. Well, she'd say that, but he and Sam never behaved well enough to earn treats. She just liked spoiling them and didn't want to admit to it. "So, hey, Castiel. I was wondering if you'd wanna come with me today? My dad's coming to visit me later, and I'm not entirely comfortable being alone... I mean you don't have to, I'm not tryin' to guilt you or anything—"

"Of course I will," Castiel interjected, smiling. Dean had explained the family situation a little more as well, during one of their little chats. They liked to spend the evenings in his room, watching the sky since he had such a lovely view of it. And when they were there, conversations could go from casual banter to deep matters very quickly. "I'd love to meet him, see where you got all your great character from."

Well, the drinking wasn't great character, that was a foolish addiction he wasn't ever willing to drop until he was forced. And everything else, that wasn't too good either. Dean didn't think very highly of himself. How could he, after all he'd done, to himself and others? He was little more than a burden in the end. But he couldn't say that, could he? "Right," he laughed, carefully masking the poisonous thoughts in his head so they didn't inflect his voice. "You get to meet the grump who raised me. I think he'd like you, though." Who couldn't? "He's supposed to come around four, so whaddya say we meet at...oh, three? Just hang out until he gets here?"

And that was how Castiel ended up staying with him when the orderly came to inform him that he had a visitor. They didn't really have a specific place they could meet, so Bobby just came down to his room, and the look on his face when he saw him...he looked so relieved, immediately coming over to pull him into a tight hug, one that Dean swore made his damn bones crack. There were few times he'd ever hugged Dean like that. When he first adopted him and Sam, after the accident, and now. It was something that he understood as special, a rare moment when the man actually let his feelings bubble to the surface. "Dean! How are 'ya?" Bobby asked, leaning back to look him over.

"I'm fine, Bobby," he replied assuringly. "I've got this great nurse—her name is Meg, she's real pretty—and she takes good care of me. So does this guy." He nodded his head back towards Castiel, who was standing there awkwardly and silent, shifting his weight—or rather lack thereof—and fidgeting. "Meet Castiel. Castiel, meet my dad." Bobby stepped away from him to take in the sight that was Castiel, and he could hear the gears turning over questions in his head. He'd known for a long time that Dean leaned towards guys; it wouldn't be surprising if he thought they were some kind of couple, seeing them together. Dean would just let him think that. It wasn't true, but he wouldn't breathe a word about it as long as nobody asked. Let them all assume what they wanted.

His friend shuffled up to stand beside him, offering a hand out like he was making some kind of peace offering. "I'm Castiel," he reiterated, his voice wavering just enough for Dean to notice that he was nervous. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. ...?"

Bobby scoffed and reached for his hand, giving it a firm shake. "None of that Mister stuff, a'ight? Just call me Bobby; everyone does." Castiel seemed a bit taken aback but nodded, his blue eyes wide. He looked like he was meeting the damn president or something, he was so in awe! Dean couldn't help but laugh, which earned him two confused but happy looks. It was rare that he laughed these days, though since meeting his crazy, precious roommate...he was generally in a better mood. He could swallow down the bad feelings with his morning pills and it was alright. Life was decent for the first time in a long time.

The three of them finished their greetings and sat down, Dean and Castiel side by side on his bed with Bobby using the desk chair he'd pulled over. He was trying to fill him in on what had happened since he last seen him without going into great detail. They'd be there all night. "This therapist, the one I'm seeing for depression, I hate the guy. He keeps poking around in my business all the damn time. I like the head doctor, though. He lets me go out and work on Baby."

"You better not be out there now," the older man scolded warningly, and Dean shook his head no. They'd stopped letting him go out since the weather was taking a turn, but it was okay. He had other ways to occupy his time. The garden wasn't closed off yet and likely never would be, but all patients had to be in at a certain time while the sun was still out so the ones with weaker constitutions, like Castiel, wouldn't risk getting sick and stunting their recoveries. It made sense to him and despite the complaints, he was going to start insisting they go in early. He needed Castiel healthy—as healthy as he could be, at least. And mentally sound. He hadn't had any problems since Dean met him, not that he knew of anyway.

"No way, I knew you'd come skin my ass if I was. It's a bit too cold for my liking anyway. But that's okay, he keeps me occupied." Bobby cast a sideways glance at Castiel upon those words, and Dean just immediately knew what he was thinking. He'd grown up with this man; he was familiar with the way his mind worked. "No, not like that. We just hang out a lot."

"Oh, that's what they're calling it these days?"

"Asshole," Dean snorted, punching his arm lightly. "I'm pretty sure the nurses would kill me if I tried something like that." Actually, he knew for a fact that Meg didn't care. She knew that they stayed in Dean's room late at night to talk, even though that was supposedly against regulations. What did it hurt, really? They weren't in there doing anything unorthodox or making a ruckus, so it wasn't like anyone could complain about them. He was seriously glad they had conjoining rooms. It reminded him of the dorms at college, but there weren't a ton of annoying freshman hogging the bathroom all morning. He just had one sweet guy and that was perfect. He was one of the few friends Dean had these days, one of the only people who stuck around even after his life was spiralling out of his control. That meant more than he could express in words. "We usually just sit in here and talk," he continued, and Castiel nodded lightly for emphasis. "I tell him how much of an ass you are, all the good things."

"You do not," his friend stated beside him, looking over at him with narrowed eyes, feigning grumpiness. "I think most the time you're complaining about the food, or your car. Or that therapist who insists on talking to you."

Dean groaned. "He's so annoying, really. Like, how many times do I gotta tell him I don't want to talk?"

"Oh, once you hit about one hundred, he lets up a little."

Across from them, Bobby just laughed, catching the pair a little off guard. It was rare to hear him laugh these days, ever since the accident especially. It was a happy sound, and he missed it. He really, really did. He missed the evenings spent in the living room around the fire, Sam telling them all about his big plans to go be a lawyer while Dean and the old man teased him, saying there was no way someone as sweet as him could argue with anyone and win. But then he'd pull those puppy dog eyes and nobody could resist. He'd have been the best attorney ever. He even missed him coming home bragging about how well his classes were going while Dean was struggling through an extended calculus or some shit class. He was actually jealous then and now he'd love to sit and listen to him go on about it for hours.

It was funny, the way things changed when someone was dead.

"Y'did good, kid," Bobby told Dean, clapping him on the shoulder. He flushed, grinning. "So, you need to invite him along when I come back for Christmas, too. I figure I can get the time off for that." Since he'd worked for him for a while, Dean knew that it was a bit of a challenge to get time off from the salvage yard. They were forever busy and short-handed. But Bobby was the owner; surely they couldn't complain about him taking a day. And if they did, well, it wasn't like it'd change a thing.

"Christmas?" Dean questioned, tilting his head and glancing over at the wall where he expected a calendar to be hanging amidst a ton of old band posters and crayon drawings from his brother's younger years, feeling a bit like a moron when there wasn't one. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't really seen any in any place aside from the head doctor's office. Well, that certainly explained why he had no clue what day it was, let alone the month. "Is it that close already?"

The older man nodded, giving him a skeptical look. "Well, yeah. It's the end of November, son." Huh. He'd have thought they would have done something for Thanksgiving, then. They did have that really big, fancy dinner right around then, though, so maybe that was it? Half these people were likely too crazy to know when holidays were anyway. "Maybe I need to get you a calendar this year."

"Probably would be good," he replied, though he had no idea what a dead man would need a calendar for. Maybe he could leave it for Castiel. "I swear, the last time I looked, it was October. The beginning of it, too. Time really flies." He always thought it would drag on in a place like this, but it went surprisingly fast. Weeks passed without him even really noticing. "So, Christmas. I definitely like the sound of a visit."

* * *

Holidays—the few celebrated, at least—were surprisingly not dull in the mental ward. As it got colder and closer to Christmas, the halls adopted strings of golden tinsel and the archways were adorned in little, colourful lights. In the day room, they'd put up a rather small tree, dark green and smelling strongly of pine. Everything seemed a little cheerier. Meg was overjoyed about getting to wear these little tree earrings she'd gotten the previous year and had been gushing to Dean and Castiel for the past week straight. It made him a bit happier, which seemed to be harder these days.

Dean had been getting progressively worse. His random coughing fits were far more often, sometimes so bad that he had to rush to the bathroom so he didn't get sick on the floor. And _everything _hurt. He hadn't gotten out of bed for the past couple of days, knocked up on a morphine drip until it eased. Castiel hadn't left his side, usually just falling asleep in a chair next to the bed, a blanket draped over him by their nurse. He knew now how bad off Dean really was after waking up a number of times to him freaking about more blood. Castiel was like Meg, though; neither addressed the facts staring them in the face and both were very supportive of him "getting better."

On the day Bobby was supposed to visit, though. Dean was feeling quite a bit better and could actually get out of bed. He wasn't coming until that evening, so he and Castiel were going to just spend the day in the day room, in front of the big windows so they could watch the snow. He'd thought long and hard about what kind of thing he should get the guy, what with his limited resources, and he had the perfect thing. Well, he hoped it'd be perfect. It wasn't out of bounds, considering how close they were, but he was a bit skeptical. What if he thought it was stupid? Ah, well, it was a bit late to change it now. He'd gotten Meg to wrap it and everything—and she thought it was quite sweet, she'd informed him. So he was going with it. The worst that could happen was that he wouldn't want it.

"Hey, I got you something," he told him after the room had cleared out a bit, smiling nervously when Castiel's questioning gaze shifted over to him. He knew he hadn't expected anything of him, but Dean wanted to do it nevertheless. Why not? It was likely the only chance he was going to get, considering his condition; might as well go for it. Besides, it wasn't anything weird. It made sense, in a roundabout way. Dean pulled the little bundle from under his arm, passing it over to him. He had to nod encouraging before he'd unwrap it, and when he did, the way his eyes lit up was one of the best things Dean had been permitted to witness thus far.

Castiel didn't have any family—none that didn't want to kill him that was. He'd been on good behaviour for a long time according to Meg, but never had anything of his own because nobody would bring him anything. So Dean wanted to fix that. Bobby had brought him back a couple of his favourite classic rock band t-shirts, and he'd decided to give Castiel the one from the Led Zeppelin tour, because it was very soft and comfortable, and he honestly thought it'd look fantastic. "Dean, this is—"

"Yours."

He held the shirt up to examine it, turning it this way and that, smiling. He looked like a little kid. Dean loved that expression on him. He watched him silently as he pulled off the white long-sleeved shirt some people had transitioned to wearing, taking a second to appreciate the lean muscles of his back—and the small, foreign tattoo neatly placed down one side. He hadn't really noticed it before. He knew he had one along his collarbone, and this one was totally just as cool. He reached out to adjust the hem of the shirt after he'd gotten it on, giving him a hand to help support him as he stood. Castiel was practically bouncing with excitement.

"Look! It fits," he exclaimed, grinning broadly and smoothing his hands over the front. His tubes were stuck in his sleeve, but that'd be easy to fix with some assistance and if he actually took the time to put his clothes on properly. "I'm sorry, I didn't get you anything, but...ooh! I got it. Come on, Dean." Dean obliged and stood, his knees popping in complaint, and took his place next to Castiel, draping an arm over his shoulders.

"I don't need anything, Cas."

_"Castiel," _he corrected softly, right before leaning over to press a soft kiss to Dean's lips. It was gentle, lasting far too short for his liking. He felt his face flush with heat as he leaned back to look at him with wide eyes. Castiel seemed proud of himself, smiling smugly. "Merry Christmas, Dean."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **And we're back! For those of you who didn't get the note on the end of the last chapter, I've been away and unable to post chapters. I'm back now and can use a computer, so we'll be resuming the weekly posts now :) Thank you for having patience with me!

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Dean had never really had good luck with relationships. He'd dated a lot in high school, as most teenagers tended to do, but nothing ever stuck. Girls found him boring, and the very few guys he'd ever had a thing with wanted him to be their bitch. He'd grown up in a less than good town, so it was honestly to be expected, but it'd kind of crushed his desire to be with anyone for a long, long time. And then there was Castiel. He was _amazing. _Weird, of course, but honestly the best thing that'd happened to Dean's dwindling life. He just made him happy in ways nobody else seemed to. They weren't dating, per se, considering the circumstances surrounding them, but they were definitely something more than friends at this point. Friends didn't typically walk around holding hands and kissing in the corners like kids.

Meg thought they were adorable, and Bobby seemed to completely love them together. He never ever outright said anything, but the clues were there. He didn't have to be a detective to see that; Castiel was certainly enough of one, pointing out pretty much every obvious thing like it was some fantastic secret. Dean had taken to teasing him over it, but he did think it was cute. He was such a little kid at heart, even if he did claim to be this ancient, multi-dimensional being who could destroy cities if he so wished. Castiel could hardly even hurt a fly, let alone people. Still, there was something off about him, some underlying...power? He wasn't sure. But the closer they got, the more in tune he was with him and he couldn't help but notice that there was _something._

Dean found himself spending a lot of his idle time just trying to figure it all out, see what it was that made that man so very different from anyone he'd ever met before. He would watch him move, listen to him talk, study him again and again, but in the end he found nothing. Castiel was just everything he'd wanted somehow and that seemed to be that. He still wondered, though. Some little part of him really wanted to know if maybe, just perhaps, he was an angel like he said.

"Dean, you're staring again," Castiel whispered, nudging him and pulling him back to the present. They were sitting in the room where they had their therapy sessions, waiting for the other patients and the therapist to file in. They weren't usually early, but Dean's body was giving him complaints when it came to moving and they found it best to just give him as much time as possible to get places. So they ended up half an hour early and just sat there, talking. Or Castiel had been talking, and he'd zoned out again. He blinked a couple times and smiled, feeling heat creep up into his cheeks.

"Sorry love," he murmured, reaching over to cup Castiel's cheek and smoothing his thumb over his skin. He was warm, but not feverishly so. He'd been sick the past week, and it was a relief to have him back to normal. Dean did so worry over him these days. It'd been so long since he'd had an episode, even Meg was edgy. She said it was uncommon. They thought maybe it was just because he had a much improved atmosphere, but nothing was certain when it came to him. If it really was Dean who was making it better, what would happen when he inevitably died? It was already so close... He tried not to think about it, but somehow it always crept back into his thoughts or dreams. There really was no getting out of it.

Castiel smiled back and leaned into his touch, resting his hand over Dean's. "You think a lot these days, don't you?" he asked softly, and he nodded lightly in response. Castiel never asked him what he thought about, but he was sure the question had to be right on the tip of his tongue. He just had the courtesy not to pry, not that Dean would've minded letting him in on that. As long as it wouldn't depress him, he didn't mind discussing just about anything. Except for one thing.

Which was, of course, the very thing the therapist asked about pretty much every damn meeting. It was no secret to the staff that he'd lost his little brother; he'd have thought that they'd have all the information they could want right there, but every week there was the same question: "Do you want to talk about it, Dean?" No, he didn't, and he'd usually make that known to the man in terms of vulgar language that earned him a glare from the orderly. Today, though, he didn't. He'd had enough of it. If they wanted to know so damn bad, he'd tell them.

"If it'll shut you up, yeah, I'll fucking tell you," he bit, gripping Castiel's hand a little tighter. They'd shifted to just holding hands during these meetings, for the sake of everyone else. "I mean, I'm gonna die anyway. Why not let you all remember me by this?" The man opened his mouth to complain but Dean shushed him with a pointed glare, then closed his eyes and sighed, taking a moment to collect himself before recounting the thing that changed his life.

_Sam was always a smart kid. Smarter than Dean, smarter than their dad. He was a good person, always did his work and followed rules, and he was generally a sweet guy. He had a great girlfriend, too; Jessica was just as smart and kind. Dean loved the pair deeply. They were, quite honestly, the highlight of his life. He was proud of Sam for doing what he'd done. Yes, he loved teasing him once he got into law school, but Dean was so very proud. _

_It was rare that Sam came home unless he was on break, so the visit caught Bobby and Dean totally off guard. They were taking a break from working on this old, beat up Civic when he just pulled into the drive out of the blue, dressed a bit nicer than usual but still the same old Sam. Dean had all but tackled the guy. They dragged him inside to sit and talk, and he announced that he was only staying for the weekend since he had to be back to study for exams. It'd be nice if they had longer, but hey, beggars couldn't be choosers. They made good use of their time. The three stayed up talking until the wee hours of the morning, when they reluctantly had to turn in. _

_Their plans included staying home and doing a whole lot of nothing, but that was cut short when Bobby was called out for an emergency. Some guy broke down on the side of a highway, he needed that car to get to his very important job, blah blah blah. So it was just Dean and Sam. That was okay, though, because they just made plans with the two of them. He'd be damned if he just let precious time with his baby brother go down the drain. _

_It was evening when they headed out in his Impala, planning to go get some dinner at one of the fantastic local diners and maybe be home in time to catch a re-run of this stupid cartoon they used to watch religiously. They gave themselves plenty of time to get there and back, so that there'd be no rush. It wasn't like they were doing anything else, really. They got there without any sort of conflict, grabbed the corner booth, and settled in to catch up while they ate. The waitress, Jo, remembered them and was overjoyed to see them. She kept coming to "check on them" and get some words in. "She's got a crush on you," Sam teased, and Dean couldn't help but blush. _

_"Her? No way," he scoffed, pausing to take a long drink of his beer. He and Sam were both having one, just one, as a celebratory kind of deal. Dean had cut down on his drinking a lot, so this was a bit of a treat for him. "Way outta my league. Besides, she's not really my type, Sammy. You know me; I have to go for the people _way _out there." His brother snorted and shook his head, grinning. They both knew Dean's history with dating—it just didn't happen. Especially not with girls like Jo Harvelle. She was a good girl, head cheerleader when they were in school, miss popularity and the top of every guy's want list. He had absolutely no business with someone on that level and he'd never even tried._

_After a bit more teasing about things like middle school crushes and some of their bombed dates, the pair reluctantly abandoned their booth to pay the bill and start heading home. They'd been planning to stay a little later, but the sky had clouded over and Dean could hear thunder rumbling along in the distance. He had no issues driving in rain typically, but a lot of the roads leading out here were muddy messes, and he'd prefer not to risk anything. Besides, Jo warned them that it was supposed to be particularly bad out tonight; they even had a couple flash flood warnings._

_Despite leaving early, they still managed to get caught up in the middle of the fast-moving storm. The drive was at least a half hour between the diner and the house, and they couldn't have been more than ten minutes in. Honestly, he probably should have just turned it around right then and there in the middle of the road and waited it out, but Sam needed to get back and Dean wasn't keen on spending the night out somewhere. He wasn't sure why, but that just never settled very well with him. So home it was. Dean drove slower than the limit just to be safe, since he could hardly see five feet in front of him even with the wipers on high and his lights on._

_He should've pulled over, turned around, _anything _but keep going. Of course, he didn't. They kept on down the empty roads, thinking they'd be able to get home and run inside without getting totally soaked through. Bobby was bound to be back by then, too, so they could all just hang out in the living room and catch a marathon of stupid cartoons they likely wouldn't even be watching. "Dean, I think our turn is just up there," Sam remarked after a period of silence, pointing off to their left, into the heavy rain where absolutely nothing was visible._

_They'd been going long enough for that to be true, so Dean took a second to look over that way and lean forward in his seat, squinting. He couldn't see a thing, so he started to turn back to his brother to see if he could point it out or not. "Where? Sammy, I don't really see—"_

_He never got a chance to complete that thought, because the last thing he was aware of was a pair of quickly-approaching glaring headlights and the screeching of tires. Then everything went dark. And it stayed dark and quiet for a long, long time. Dean wasn't anywhere, really, just kind of lingering in nothing. It was oddly peaceful. For a while, he wondered if perhaps he'd died. He'd always heard the stories that when a person died there was some bright light or something and while this wasn't exactly what he'd pictured, it was comfortable. He'd have been willing to stay there, unbothered by the trivial bullshit of their world, but that wasn't the way life went with Dean Winchester. He wasn't allowed that kind of rest._

_His senses awoke slowly. Touch came first, opening to him a new brand of pain. He had a splitting headache and there was a sharp sting every time he breathed, and moving was totally out of the question thanks to the constant hurt throughout his entirety. Hearing was next, and his sweet silence swindled away, slowly replaced by screaming sirens and the long, continuous sound of a horn blaring angrily nearby. Dean groaned and coughed, the sound rattling in his chest. Taste was starting to creep back, and the only flavour he could find in his mouth was the bitter, metallic grossness of blood. He struggled to push himself up but his arms didn't cooperate, trembling and buckling under his weight, sending him straight back to the asphalt. Dean forced his eyes open and blinked against the rain running over him, soaking him through and making his shiver as he tried to make sense of the crooked scene he was looking at. _

_There were lights, bright and glaring, and he had to nearly close his eyes to look. Even then, it was hard to make anything out. There were...cars? Yeah, that was it. Two cars, one larger like a truck and the other shorter, stretched out. It was oddly like..._his _car. But it couldn't be, because he was supposed to be _in _the car. Dean tried pushing himself up again, and this times his arms held so he could climb to his feel, unsteady. There was something warm running down one side of his face along with the freezing rain and he couldn't put weight on his right leg, but he felt alright. He couldn't sit around. Something in his gut told him he had to get over to that mess before it was too late. _

_But too late for what?_

_Dean hobbled towards the cars, grunting softly in pain every time he had to step with his right. Every part of him hurt, but he couldn't stop and he didn't even understand why. He just kept moving closer, and all the while the sirens kept growing louder. They'd be here soon, and he had to beat them. Dean slipped in some kind of black oil at one point, stumbling and nearly falling, only just managing to catch himself against the hood of his car. It was still warm, though the engine had long since died and the rain was relentless. Baby was a good car; she supported the brunt of his weight as he moved around her to get a look at the passenger side, or at least as much of it was still there._

_The other car, a pickup, was firmly wedged into the near middle of the car's side, its lights on and the horn blaring. Dean winced at the noise and pushed forward, leaning heavily on his car. The frame was dented in pretty far, and the windows were shattered. Glass sparkled on the ground nearby. One of his shoes was missing somehow, so Dean avoided it as best he could, not that the pain really registered in his head right then. He'd gotten close enough to get a look into the passenger side, and his world all but stopped completely. _

_Everything was eerily quiet as he stared at his brother with wide eyes, reaching through the broken window to touch him ever so gently. He was sitting upright, leaning a little one side, with his head hanging limply like he was a scolded child. The seatbelt, which Dean always had issues remembering to put on, was strapped firmly across his chest. It would have been relieving, had it not been for the dark red stain spreading slowly down his shirt. "Sammy?" Dean choked, his voice hoarse like he'd spent the last couple hours screaming his head off. "H-hey, Sammy, what's wrong?"_

_He somehow found the strength to keep his arm up long enough to gently lift his listless brother's head, tilting it back so he could see his face. His stomach rolled violently at the sight. There was glass imbedded into his skin, blood oozing from around the wounds, but the most concerning wound was the long gash spanning the right side of his face and forehead. Red ran from it liberally, matting his hair and staining his clothes. "No." Dean hurriedly lifted his other hand to wipe at the wound, trying to quell the bleeding and only succeeding in spreading it onto himself and Sam. He cupped his face, patting his cheek gently, like he was trying to wake him. "No, hey, Sammy, you gotta wake up. It's fine, just—open your eyes, _please."

_There was no movement or indications from the other man and Dean's heart clenched in his chest as a harsh reality settled in. They'd had a wreck. Dean was thrown out the window, and Sam...Sam was... "Come on, little brother," he pleaded, shaking him roughly. The sounds were leaking back in now and he could hear the sirens roaring just off to the side, but he couldn't be bothered. "Sam! Damnit, come on! Please, don't leave me alone, please..."_

_The EMTs had to drag him away from the car. He fought the whole time, begging and screaming for Sam to wake up, until someone managed to hold him still enough to stick a needle in his arm. His strength faded quickly after that, and all he could do was watch the car drowsily while a nurse dressed his leg. The bone had been sticking out, they informed him, and he'd sustained injuries that needed immediate treatment. Dean shook his head._

_"No, my brother," he replied, his voice slurred as if he was drunk. He pointed off to the wreckage, looking down at the nurse pleadingly. "He's bleeding, he needs help..." The lady just looked at him sympathetically, pushed him down onto the stretcher, and called for someone to get him in the ambulance. _

_Dean must have passed out, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up in a bed, his wrists and ankles bound by something. His right leg was pulled up in a sling with a black cast wrapped around it, but everything else had been strapped down like he'd been fighting. Hell, he probably had. And that was still the first thing he tried to do, until a familiar hand settled on his arm. He jerked his head to the side, looking up at the worried yet relieved face of Bobby. He looked tired. Who knew how long he'd been here? Dean couldn't remember a thing past the ambulance, aside from maybe a little shouting in muffled voices. _

_"Where's Sam?" It was the first thing he asked, because it was his priority. He strained his neck to look past Bobby, then tried looking over to his other side, but he saw nothing. He was alone in a little recovery room. But that didn't mean Sam wasn't next door or something, or maybe in the ER still. He'd been pretty wounded, so it made sense that they'd have him still._

_Bobby's darkened expression effectively crushed that small flower of hope, though, and some part of him just knew right then. The thing he'd figured out on the sight of the crash, it was made real by that one reaction. Dean shook his head, closed his eyes and prayed for it not to be true, but he knew it was without it ever being said. There was a gaping hole in his chest where there'd once been a heart, the pain spreading throughout his entire being, etching into his very soul. _

_"Sam...he didn't make it."_

"The other driver and Sam, they didn't make it. I was the only survivor," he bit, watching the therapist's changing expressions without remorse. He looked horrified, as did a vast number of people in the circle. He didn't look at Castiel, because he was afraid he'd think he was broken now. "Stayed in that damn place for two weeks before I could leave. We had a funeral for my brother, God, he should be finishing law school this year, and instead he's rotting in a damn pine box! And it's all my fucking fault."

Dean had blamed himself since the first moment he realised what'd happened. It'd been raining and he couldn't have controlled that, but he should have done something. He could've paid more attention, stopped the car, turned around and just stayed with Jo until it let up. It should've been him who died if one of them had to; he was the older brother. He didn't have a life, or plans for one. Sam did. Sam was going to be great. He'd make people proud. And Dean took that from him.

He stood and pried his hand from Castiel's, blinking away the stinging tears that threatened to spill. He was hurt and mad, and the last thing he needed was for these people to see him cry. "Are you happy now? You know the great story of Dean Winchester. You can add that one to your stupid little book and use it as an example after I'm dead. I'll even give you my blessing."

The therapist stood as well, reaching for him with a concerned expression. He hated that look. It was borderline pity and he didn't want that shit. "Dean, that's not what I—"

"Save it. I don't want your bullshit today. I'm going to my room." He turned to storm out of the room, nobody even moving to stop him, and got about halfway down the hall before his composure broke. He choked, the tears running down his cheeks until he angrily wiped them away. He didn't have the right to be sad. He'd done all of this. Everything that went wrong, it was his fault. His dad had been right. Dean was a mistake, a burden. He'd be better off just killing himself now, save everyone the trouble of watching him die slowly.

He wasn't too far from his room when he heard rushed steps behind him, the occasional little squeak of wheels giving away exactly who was chasing him. Dean didn't want to see anyone, not even him. He was in a bad mood and things never went well when he was. It was best to leave him be, let him vent. But Castiel was too sweet for his own good. He cared a little too much.

"Dean!" he called, "wait up!" Despite himself, Dean's feet slowed, and he cursed under his breath. If he could hold it together, it'd be okay... Castiel caught up to him easily now, reaching over to touch his arm. "Are you okay?"

What the fuck did he think? "Yeah, I'm peachy," he retorted, shrugging him off. He caught a hurt look crossing his features out of the corner of his eye and instantly felt a little bad, but not enough to apologize right yet. "Leave me alone, Cas, I'm not in the mood."

"No, Dean, I won't. If you want to talk, I'd like to talk to you. I understand what you're—"

"Shut the _fuck _up." There it was. His breaking point. Dean wheeled around to glare at him, clutching his side where a bout of pain was flaring up. "You _understand? _I don't think anyone fucking understands, especially not a damn schizo. You're already crazy. Your head doesn't work right, Cas! You think you're a goddamn angel when you're _not._ How in hell could you understand a fucking thing when you don't even know reality?"

The hurt on his face was clear now, tears beading in Castiel's eyes as he looked up at him, almost afraid. His lower lip trembled and Dean felt horrible, but he couldn't stop his stupid mouth. "Just leave me alone. I don't want to see you." He turned on his heel again and marched down the short hall, stepped into his room, and slammed the door, the sound echoing in the empty space.

For a moment he just stood there, glaring at the door and breathing angrily, but it didn't take long for him to calm down enough to realise what he'd just done. He was such an asshole to him, and he hadn't even meant any of that. He loved Castiel and here he was acting like that. What was _wrong _with him? Shit, he had to fix this. Now. Dean opened the door quickly and stepped back out, Castiel's name on his lips, but he was only greeted with an empty hall, the squeaky IV stand lying on the floor, abandoned.


	9. Chapter 9

Six months.

That was how long they gave him the day he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver, a disease in its terminal stages. Dean was no expert on anything medical, but he'd always been under the influence that when a doctor told you that you had so long, you were supposed to get _at least_ that much time. He felt cheated, because only roughly four and a half months into his sentence, he had landed himself back in the ER and they were now estimating in days. He'd been doing well, it seemed, but the damage had been worse than they'd thought. His liver hadn't been able to handle the bleeding anymore and had finally just ruptured under the pressure. And it hurt like _hell. _Meg found him on his bedroom floor, choking on blood and crying, hugging himself. It wasn't pretty.

So he'd been moved out of the ward and had a permanent room in the hospital. They patched him up and drugged him, but they couldn't do much. Bobby was with him pretty much all day, and Meg came over to spend a couple hours with him, as they'd grown fairly close. Even Charlie got to come over, with special permissions from the head doctor since she and Dean were friends. It would've been cruel not to let them say goodbye, right? One person was missing, though: Castiel. He'd been gone some time now, since Dean snapped on him two or so weeks before. There were no signs as to where he'd gone; his room was tidy, the IV stand resting abandoned by the bed, the black symbols drawn over the walls mocking the silence.

It wasn't hard to find out what happened, though, if he asked the right people. Meg was willing to share information with him. He didn't like what he was told, though. Castiel had been taken back to a special ward for psychosis treatment, as he'd had another episode the very same afternoon Dean had yelled at him. He knew the guy had a fragile mental state, but he hadn't ever thought that would happen... "We found him locked up in one of the supply rooms; don't know how he got in there to start with... He'd hurt himself and seemed really edgy," she'd told him, and his heart sank in his chest. He shouldn't have gotten mad at him, of all people. He hadn't meant it.

But what was said was done, and he had to suffer the consequences. He wasn't happy, but he deserved it. He couldn't treat his friends right and thus simply didn't need to be around them, for their own sake. Charlie said he was being too hard on himself. Dean didn't really care. He'd been right in the beginning, when he thought he needed to stay alone because he'd hurt anyone else. It was all he seemed capable of these days.

"You're being too hard on yourself," Bobby told him, just as Charlie had. Dean had explained to him why Castiel wasn't around, and why he was being so moody lately. "It's not your fault, Dean. It was probably just a normal thing. You did say he was sick as well, so it's not like it could've been helped—"

"It could've. He'd been doing so well and I fucked it up," he mumbled, turning his head to one side so he could glare out the window at the water. This part of the hospital was even closer to the lake than the ward. "I said mean things to him. I hurt his feelings and this—this is because of me, I know it. I dunno what to do..."

Bobby sighed softly, and he could hear him resettling in his chair. He'd been there since morning and had to be uncomfortable. Part of Dean wanted to tell him to go home, but he selfishly didn't want to be alone. "How about apologising, for starters?" he suggested quietly, reaching out to touch Dean's shoulder comfortingly. "I'm sure he understands that you weren't thinking clearly, and if you just explain, it'll be okay. He's a great guy, Dean. Something tells me he doesn't hate you for this. So you need to talk to him."

"How? He's in a treatment ward, somewhere far away from here." He'd asked Meg if it was in this hospital, having thought the very same thing Bobby was suggesting to him. He was discouraged to hear it was at another facility roughly an hour out, where they had better equipment for handling psychotic episodes and restraining patients. Poor Castiel...he had to be so scared. He'd said that he hated going unfamiliar places, mainly because it wasn't warded the way his room was, and that didn't seem like an easy place to stay. "How am I gonna see him before...?" Dean trailed off without stating the obvious, tensing up a moment later as a sick, wet coughing fit seized him. They were so often now, as was the vomiting. He was out of bed more than he was in it.

He had tubes now, too. He couldn't hold down food, so he had a nutrient supplement being given to him through an IV, and he had the blissful thing that was morphine. It made most the pain diminish, leaving only enough of a dull aching that he preferred to not move and aggravate it. Coughing hurt like hell now, though. Bobby rubbed his arm soothingly and stood, the chair creaking a bit to announce that fact, and slowly moved around to Dean's other side to grab his water cup. They knew it'd be out of his body within a couple hours, but for now, it was okay. He was parched.

He was helped into a sitting position, the cup held to his dry lips so he could take a sip. He was far too shaky to hold it himself. It was crazy, how fast everything moved once something broke. He'd been on a gradual decline, but now it was a downward spiral with no brakes. Dean took a couple long drinks of water before pushing it away, coughing into his elbow in an attempt to clear his airway a little more. It was like the blood just clotted there, blocking it up and refusing to budge. The doctor checked and told him it was just in his head, but that didn't make it easier to ignore. In fact, it only became more prominent. Dean's head was kind of a screwy place.

At least he wasn't seeing Sam as much. He was still there, that big, lanky figure of his always lurking just out of his view, but he didn't really interact with Dean. He seemed to be kind of irritable from the few glances he'd gotten at him. That was understandable. He'd never been happy about Dean doing bad things to himself. That was what started it all, wasn't it? One bad decision after another, packed onto years of stress and hell and toppled by the fact that he drank away his problems instead of talking about them when that would be so much easier. The therapist had tried to contact him...and he'd ignored all attempts. Dean just wanted to die.

And he was getting his stupid wish.

The thing was, now that he was here, somehow he didn't want to die. He was scared. Scared that he wasn't going to ever find peace, or that Sam may reject him once they were in the same world. Could dead people do that? Was that a thing? He didn't know, but it scared him. And what of Castiel? He'd be left here all alone, suffering, sad...he probably wouldn't ever get better. He'd started pulling out his IVs again and refusing medicine, and it'd be right back to the beginning. Only this time, Dean wouldn't be there to help him. He wouldn't find him in the shower, unconscious. Nobody would until it was too late for anything to make a difference.

"What if you asked Doctor Gabriel to get him special permissions, like Charlie? It couldn't hurt to ask, and maybe he'd be willing to work with us here." Dean hadn't thought of that. He thought it'd be bothersome, or that they'd think he was stupid. Maybe they thought he was irresponsible, just like he knew he was. But...it was worth a try, wasn't it? He could ask, and if he was denied, he just had to accept it. If he was accepted...he could finally say he was sorry, set things right with the person his heart had decided to love.

Did he love Castiel? Yes, he did. It started as a simple crush, and over the short time they'd had, they'd grown close. Somewhere in there, Dean fell for him. Hard. His stupid flower crowns, the bees, his excited rambling when they lay on the floor and looked outside together...he loved it all. And he missed it. He had to see him. There were many things he was uncertain of in life, but that was not one of those things. He needed to see him one more time so he could set things right.

"I...didn't think of that. It's a good idea, really...I bet I can get Meg to get him up here or something. Take a message if she has to." Meg was an awesome person, so willing to do so much for him. The circumstances of them becoming friends really sucked, but it was what it was and he might as well make the best of it. "She's supposed to come see me later...I'll ask her then."

They chatted for a while longer before Bobby had to go, having had a pretty urgent call he couldn't afford to miss. Dean hated being alone, but he understood and didn't complain, just saying goodbye to him with a smile. He wasted time staring off into space, trying to imagine how he could ever apologise to Castiel for what he'd said. He was trying to help, and Dean had shoved him away, snapped and said mean things.

Sorry wasn't going to be enough. He needed to explain, for one. Maybe he should get him flowers or something? No, that'd be stupid, wouldn't it... Dean couldn't really make it up to him anymore, not with being stuck in the hospital, practically bedridden. It'd be different if he had more time, but he didn't. So he'd make due with what he had left. He'd spent as much time with him as he possibly could. Whatever he asked of him, if he possibly could, he'd do it. Dean would bend over backwards if it would make Castiel smile.

He'd done a lot of bad things in his life. If he could make one important person happy before he died...he'd be fine. He could die a happy person. He wouldn't be scared anymore. Granted, he didn't want to leave Castiel here to face his demons alone, but Dean would wait patiently for him. Hopefully he'd have to wait a hell of a long time. Nobody deserved an early death.

"Hey, Dean? Earth to Dean?" Meg's voice broke his thoughts and he pulled out of his daydreams, blinking over at her in shock before glancing at the clock. Lord, it'd been hours already. It seemed like minutes. The concerned look on the girl's face said that he'd been really out of it, though. She gave a soft sigh of relief and sat in the chair, pulling it closer to the bed so she could grab his hand without stretching or moving him. "There you are. You were really zoned out, hun. Had me worried. How're you feeling?"

_Like hell_, he thought, though he simply said, "Alright, I guess." He didn't want her to feel bad about his condition. They'd known he was going to die from the start. Pity or sympathy was lost on him now. It was a waste of good emotions. "The pain meds they give me are amazing. I can't feel most of it, just a little twinge now and then. Not eating kinda sucks ass, but hey, I get these cool tubes again."

Meg snorted softly and shook her head, her dark curls bouncing. Despite the heavy situation, the mood was light. Neither one wanted to linger on the darkness of everything these days. "Right, they're cool. At least you won't pull yours out, right?" He nodded lightly. Castiel always pulled his out, and it'd never boded well for him. Speaking of...

"How's Castiel?" he asked quietly, glancing down at their hands.

Her eyes followed his, lingering briefly while she sighed, and then she looked up at him. He knew it wouldn't be good. "He's not so good. He hasn't tried anything else, but he refuses to talk to anyone, or to eat. He sleeps a lot at least, but if we try to get close, he wakes up and freaks out. I wish we knew what even caused all this, he was doing so good..."

Dean knew. He knew exactly what broke Castiel; him. He swallowed thickly. "Right...well, um, I was hoping you could take a request to Gabriel for me. It's related to Cas."

"Yeah, I can do that. What is it?"

"I wanna see him again. You know, like a dying wish? I wondered if he could get special permission so I can see him at least once more." Dean had grown quieter as he spoke, the fear of denial creeping up on him more and more every minute. They all had no reason to grant him and special requests, so why wouldn't they say no? This was a mistake, he needed to just take it back and—

"I'll ask him," Meg said determinedly, patting his arm. "I think maybe it'd be good for Castiel to have a familiar face again. He seemed so attached to you, more so than to us, so it seems like it'll be alright. I'll ask Gabe when I get back, Dean, and I'll try to get back to let you know. No promises on that part, though, I'm sorry. We got some kids in the ward now, teens, and I gotta watch them..."

Dean shook his head lightly, squeezing her hand gently. "No, the fact that you'll ask is enough for me, Meg. You're so good to me. Thank you." She smiled. "Take care of those kids, alright? They're gonna need you." Dean always hated seeing young people stuck in a place like that. To know that they'd done something or that their depression was _that _bad, it was heartbreaking. But that was life, and he knew it wasn't abnormal. They had problems too, and if being there would help, it was good.

"I hope I can help. I guess I should be getting back to them...I left them with one of the others, that really tall orderly? He's terrifying them," she laughed, standing slowly and patting his arm. "I'll try to get Castiel here for you, Dean. I'll sneak him in if I gotta. Take care of yourself, alright?" He promised to try. Seemingly satisfied, Meg leaned down to kiss his forehead, pulling him up into a hug before she left.

It felt too final, all these goodbyes. They were the nails in his coffin, driving it home with every hit that this was it. He was dying, and fast. He just hoped he got to see him in time.

* * *

Days started to melt together. Dean's mind was tired and his body was fighting a losing battle; he didn't have enough time to figure out what day it was, if it was morning or night, if he was even still there or if it was all a dream. Bobby was there daily, talking to him without much response, though that didn't dissuade him. He seemed to understand. Dean did want to talk with him, he just couldn't focus on a thing. He was out of it.

They'd started giving him blood, since he was expelling so much of his own when he so much as took a deep breath. His lungs didn't appreciate that action. His medicine dosages had been upped, too, as much as they could without being dangerous. The doctors said he didn't have long left, because he was getting worse very quickly. He was in this drugged, blurred state of mind for however long. One thing remained clear, though, and that was his desire to see Castiel.

Meg hadn't come back up, but she'd called, saying she had permission for Castiel to visit. He was supposed to have all of Saturday and maybe even Sunday, depending on how well he did in his treatments. According to her, at the mere mention of getting to see Dean, he'd perked up and finally ate something. That was a very good sign. At least he could do one good thing with himself.

"What day is it?" he mumbled, lolling his head to the side to look at Bobby, who seemed surprised to get that much out of him.

"Friday. Why, what's up?"

"Cas' supposed to visit."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Dean smiled, letting out a little sigh. He had one day to make it through, and he could see Castiel again. It'd make everything up to that point worthwhile. "Sometime after tonight, they're gonna bring him up here, so—" He broke off to cough, wincing at the burning pain in his chest. Bobby handed him a tissue, which was crumpled and thrown into the trash can with all the other bloody ones within a minute. Dean made a face and ran his tongue over his teeth, hating the aftertaste blood left. It was gross in general. "Sorry."

The old man shook his head, smiling sadly and resting a hand on his arm. "It's not your fault, Dean, and I don't mind helping you. You need to sleep, alright? I know you haven't been, so in gonna get the nurse to give you something."

"But Cas—"

"You won't miss him, I promise. Just get some rest, okay?" Agreeing was the least he could do. These people owed him nothing, but they did so much for him. So he didn't argue, just nodded lightly and waited for the nurse to be called in. She explained that he'd be out pretty quick, made sure he was comfortable, took his vitals, and then gave him a little shot. For a moment he didn't feel anything, but then a heavy drowsiness came over him. Was that what death would be like, too? Just sudden sleep? He thought to ask, but the words never left his mouth.

Dean didn't really dream anymore. He'd lost that a long time ago. He had nightmares often, but never anything happy. In his head, though, there was the peaceful scene of him and Castiel sitting in that little garden, wearing silly flower crowns and laughing. They were both healthy and together, as it should be. He wanted that to be their reality. Staying together, neither one held down by illness or instability...it was the perfect life. If he'd known him before, he could have been so much better than he was. He wouldn't be where he was. But dreams...they were just dreams. Futile longings of the heart, often.

Yeah, he longed for a life with him.

He wanted it so badly he'd have sold his damn soul for a shot. Maybe Castiel wouldn't be perfectly alright, but Dean would help him. He'd keep him happy and take care of him, and pamper him in the ways he never had been. And he'd kiss him until he couldn't breathe, show him every affection he knew how to express. It wasn't fair. Life was too short, and he didn't get that chance. Fuck it, Dean didn't want to die! If only the realisation had happened sooner.

A gentle hand touched to his forehead woke him, as he was a light sleeper. It was probably the nurse, coming to check on him, but he didn't want to be awake. He wanted his dream world with the best man on earth. "Go 'way," he grumbled, not even bothering to open his eyes, just turning his head and tugging the blanket up further. It was cold. _Dean _was cold.

"You told me that once, but see how well it worked?" a warm voice murmured, accompanied by more gentle touching of his face, lovingly little pets that were so familiar it hurt. Dean couldn't open his eyes fast enough. Some part of him said no, that it was a dream, that he wouldn't be here, but there stood Castiel in all of his glory. He was dishevelled and rather sickly looking again, and thin, but hell, he was _there. _

Dean made the most ungodly, desperate sound, jerking upright and reaching for him with grabby hands, ignoring the sharp pain in his abdomen. Everything hurt like hell, and his monitors were going kind of wonky beside him, but it didn't matter anymore. Castiel had all the right to step away from him but he didn't, instead moving into Dean's arm and hugging him close, combing his fingers through his hair soothing while Dean finally broke. He didn't cry often, but it wasn't pretty when he did. Still, he heard no complaints, even though he knew he was making his shirt all wet.

"Hey, it's okay, Dean," he soothed, his voice soft and gentle, loving as always. How was he not mad? Dean didn't get it. He should've been. He almost _wanted _him to be. Dean deserved to be yelled at, cursed, whatever. "I know you didn't mean any of that. You were hurting and I was insensitive. I apologise."

Dean shook his head, curling his fingers into his shirt and looking up at him through blurry eyes. _"I'm _sorry," he managed to choke out, shaking his head again. "It's not you, it's—it's me. I was so s-stupid, I'm so—_sorry, _Cas, I didn't mean any of it—"

Castiel shushed him softly, leaning down a little to kiss him and smiling as he looked him over. "I know. Hush, now. I know. I forgive you, Dean." This man was a _saint. _If anyone deserved forgiveness, it certainly was not Dean Winchester, but he was damn glad to have it. He felt lighter. "Come on, let's lay you down. All this stress isn't good for you, you're bleeding again..."

His expression shifted to concern as he helped him lay back, lifting a hand to touch his finger to the corner of Dean's mouth, bringing it back dark red. He said nothing, only staring at the offensive liquid like he was trying to vanquish it, and then reached for some tissues to help wipe it away. "This...does it happen often?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but was quickly overwhelmed by the sudden rush of nausea and instead tried to grab for the nearby trash can. He didn't get it, but Castiel had figured out his intent quick enough to make it. He hated being sick, and even more when he wasn't alone. It was gross in every way and he tried his hardest to apologise, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn't have to look. Castiel pet him soothingly, assuring him over and over that it'd be okay.

It wouldn't be. They knew that. And Dean, he was very, very quickly declining in terms of health. These past few days he had been, and he was at the point when everything came to a halt. He was weak and sick and he could feel that he was going to let go soon. He couldn't explain that. He felt it, deep in his soul. It wasn't ever going to be alright again.

Castiel stayed with him all of Saturday. A nurse came that night to bitch about how visiting hours were almost over, and he basically told her to go fuck herself because he wasn't leaving Dean. She must've seen how bad he was, because she let him stay. Dean slept a lot of that night and during the day on Sunday; he didn't have the energy to stay awake anymore. Castiel took care of him, sat with him and held his hand, watched him sink lower and lower.

And then Sunday night came. It was calm, quiet and peaceful, and Dean was happy. His hand was entwined with Castiel's, who was sitting next to him dutifully. The monitors beside him had slowed their beeping, and they both knew. There was nowhere else this could go. "I don't wanna die," he whispered finally, squeezing his hand as tightly as he could, which was now kind of wimpy.

"I know, Dean. You'll be alright, just rest."

"I...I love you."

Castiel smiled and half-stood, leaning over him to kiss him. "I love you too, Dean." Dean smiled as well, the words warming his slow heart and making him feel so very, very happy. "Rest." He didn't argue this time, giving his hand another gentle squeeze as he closed his eyes, sighing contentedly. This was alright. He slipped back into unconsciousness, the darkness droning out the beeps and blips, and finally released his grip on the world.


	10. Chapter 10

_The thing about dying was that it wasn't like you'd expect it to be. There was no life flashing before his eyes, no light at the end of the tunnel, no great judgement to decide where his soul would rest forever. Those things were all clichés, just stories told to make it seem like a more important event than it was. There was only darkness and this strange sense of calm. Dean was peaceful, his eyes closed—or were they open?—as if he was sleeping, but he was perfectly awake and aware. It was weird. He felt like he was just drifting along in some slow, lazy sea, going nowhere but heading towards some unspecified oblivion. Maybe this was purgatory, and he was awaiting judgement or some shit like that. Though he'd always imagined purgatory as more of some dark, never-ending forest. Ah, well, he couldn't have it all go his way._

_Dean had been so upset in the end about dying, but now he couldn't say he felt bothered by much. He was going to miss Castiel deeply, of course, but the thought didn't depress him anymore because he knew he'd see him again one day. Angel or not, everything had an expiration date. Hopefully it'd be a long, long time before then, though. The guy could go places if he managed to straighten himself out a little. Dean didn't at all mind his absurd behaviours, but other people, they'd be dicks to him. And if that happened, Dean was going to become a ghost and haunt their asses. _

_There was long period of nothingness, and then something started to come back to Dean. He could feel, just barely, enough to tell that he was laid against something soft yet firm, like a bed. He had none of his motor functions, though; he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't open his eyes and see where he was. He didn't feel panicked, though. Everything was odd, but somehow he just couldn't be bothered by it in the slightest of ways. It was so sing oddly...familiar. Maybe it was just—_

_"—up. Dean, wake up!"_

_Dean started awake, jerking upright in his bed and looking around frantically, coming face to face with his too-tall little brother, who looked relieved. "God, I didn't think you were ever gonna wake up," he huffed, turning to sit on the edge of his bed. Dean just stared. He looked so alive and well, his skin tone healthy and his eyes bright with that happy light he carried with him everywhere. "You've been out forever. We were all worried."_

_"We?" It was all he could think to ask, though he had a million and one questions for him. _

_Sam nodded. "Yeah, we. Me, Bobby, Meg...Castiel..." Those were all names he couldn't have possibly known, aside from Bobby. He'd never had the pleasure of meeting Meg or Castiel, and never would. Because he was dead, had been for years. And now he was here? Dean was confused._

_"Are you a ghost?" he interrupted, pushing himself up on his forearms and looking at him critically. He didn't look ghostly, but then, what would Dean know? He was bonkers. He was also dead, and apparently dreaming still happened when you died somehow? Or...maybe his Heaven was to have all those people back with him? Sam had mentioned them, so that meant they had to be here, wherever here was. _

_It was a room he'd never been in, with soft blue walls decorated sparsely with a few hung photos of landscapes, a radiator in the corner rattling as it pumped out warm air into the room. He was lying in a bed, a couple thin blankets draped over him, with a couple softly beeping monitors hooked up to his arm. It was a hospital room, one he hadn't seen before, but that was strange, because he was damn sure he wouldn't have wanted to have this kind of place when he died. _

_"No way, man," Sam said, shaking his head with a slight smile. "I'm not a ghost. Erm...I don't think I am, anyway. I'm pretty sure only dead people can be ghosts, Dean. Did you really hit your head that hard?"_

_"Wha..?"_

_What was going on here? Dean hadn't hit his head, he'd died. Or at least, he thought he had. He lifted his arms, looking them over sceptically, pinching himself gently and flinching when it hurt. He felt real to himself, but did that mean anything? Was everything just in his head? "In the crash," his brother continued, paying no mind to Dean's little reality checks. "Do you remember? We were coming home from the diner in the storm and got hit. I was okay, but you hit your head pretty hard on the wheel, got cut up pretty bad. You've been unconscious for a solid week and a half now. You really don't remember it?"_

_Oh, no, he remembered the crash, but the stories didn't line up. It was like his place and Sam's were just switched, something he'd often wished for. He'd always wanted to be the one who went through all that, not his baby brother. He was far too important to everyone. Life wasn't the same without him. And now that he could see him again, actually reach out and touch him if he pleased, everything felt right. Had that other thing really ever happened? Sam's death? Alcohol binges? The hospital? Castiel?_

_Wait, he had mentioned Castiel. Dean hadn't known him before, but with everything still seeming so real and his feeling kind of like a scrambled mess... "Hey, how did I meet Castiel?" he asked suspiciously, earning a worried look from Sam, who promptly moved to the end of the bed to examine a medical chart. _

_"They said you might have a bit of amnesia, but I didn't imagine you'd forget your own boyfriend, Dean," he muttered, scanning over whatever was written with interest, then shrugging lightly and smiling up at him. "Ah, well. No problem, this is why I'm here. This one's easy; you tell us this story maybe every other night, and it's pretty short. You guys go to the same college, and you finally decided to go to one of those parties everyone talks about. So you're there, the place is packed, and apparently you just happened to look up and, in your words, saw an angel. It just kinda went from there."_

_"Ironic," Dean scoffed; Castiel always said he was an angel, and hell, he kind of believed him now. He didn't know why, he just did. He could so easily imagine him with these fantastic, sleek black wings, doing whatever it was angels did. Performing little miracles, playing a harp, whatever. It seemed so fitting for him. His brother gave him a questioning look, and he just shrugged. "Nothin'. So, tell me about him. Like, what's he do? Is he here?"_

_His brother laughed softly, taking a seat on the end of his bed again. "I get the feeling this is going to be the Spanish Inquisition day."_

_"Dude, I've been out for...how long? I don't remember shit." Actually he did, but it all seemed to just be wrong. It didn't match up._

_"Fair enough. I've got plenty of time anyway. So, Cas, he—"_

_"Castiel."_

_"What?"_

_"Castiel. He hates the nicknames."_

_Sam just looked at him and for a second he though he fucked up, but then he nodded slowly, looking shocked. "Yeah...that's right. I didn't think you'd remember." Dean smirked proudly and made a motion for him to carry on. "Anyway, Castiel. He's in college with you, final year. I think he's majoring in paranormal investigating? Something like that. Real big fan of that and old cars, which is probably why you guys get on. I think you guys spend most your time together in the scrapyard."_

_"Oh! Bobby's?" Sam nodded again. "How is the old guy?"_

_"Worried, mostly, but he's alright. He's been staying with dad the past few days, keeping him sobered up so he could tell him about all this. I can't say it's been going well, but it is what it is." Well, their dad was clearly still a useless dunk; some things never changed. Oh well, it wasn't like he missed the guy. His dad had been that way his whole life and he had someone far better to be his father. He didn't need John. "I called him when you started waking up. He's gonna get Castiel and Jess on the way over."_

_Jessica Moore had been Sam's girlfriend for as long as Dean could remember. She was a pretty thing, with blonde hair and big brown eyes, always smiling and very smart. She was sweet, too, and a literal ray of sunshine in their lives. Dean loved her, in very different ways than Sam. He'd always looked forward to calling her his little sister when those two finally did get married. "How is Jess?" Dean questioned, lacing his hands together over his stomach._

_"Oh, she's good—great, even. She was really worried about us, took a break from school to spend a few days down here with me. I, ah...I'm gonna ask her to marry me this spring, after we graduate." _

_"Dude, I've been after you to marry that girl for years. You're finally getting with it?"_

_Sam and Jess would get married, like they were always supposed to. Dean would have a sister. It felt so surreal, like...like a dream. But at the same time, it felt very real. Everything else, it had to be a dream. A terrible nightmare of a life he'd made up in his head when he was unconscious. Apparently it was possible to live months in another life in only a week and a half real time. He'd never have imagined any of that. _

_"Oh yeah," his brother replied, beaming. "And I want you and Cas to be in it. We're so going to torment you guys, because we all know who's getting married next." Dean felt his cheeks flush with heat. He hadn't thought about marrying Castiel, not so soon, but the idea didn't scare him. And he supposed, although he couldn't remember, that they'd been together for a couple years. It wasn't absurd or anything. _

_"Shuddup, Sammy," he griped, smiling a little himself. It was all so...nice. He'd woken from such a nightmare. Castiel hadn't been bad at all in that dream, no, he never could be, but living in a mental hospital and dying slowly...it was horrible. Dean didn't want to die. It must've all been in his head. "Hey, how long do I have to stay here? I wanna go home. I feel like I've spent months in this hell."_

_"I can call a nurse to check you out. You're in good physical condition, so maybe they'll let you out." God, he hoped so. _

_Sam called a nurse down to the room, and the woman who came in was sadly not the nurse he'd gotten used to. Was Meg even a nurse? Was she just a friend of his, maybe? He'd have to figure a lot of things out once he got home. Maybe he could go through his phone or something and figure a little out without asking stupid questions. Conversations did tell a lot about people. Dean started planning it out in his head while the woman checked him over, doing as she asked him to and not once complaining. The needles didn't bother him at this point, when he'd had so many. _

_Dean was deemed to be in perfect health despite his slight case of amnesia and the nurse said that he should be able to just handle that at home. If he couldn't, he could come back and they'd try to get him into a help program. Otherwise, he was free to go. Dean could've jumped for joy, if his body didn't feel all stiff and achy when he tried to move. As it was, Sam had to help him up out of bed. Thankfully he could dress himself well enough to leave, and then they just wasted some time sitting in his room, talking a few things out. He had a lot to adapt to. _

_When Sam announced that Bobby and the others had finally arrived, Dean was all too eager to get out and see them. They were waiting in the lobby for him, so as not to crowd him or delay his leaving. They wanted him home just as much as he wanted to leave. He wanted, more than anything, to see Castiel. He'd full on tackle the guy. This Castiel, he was healthy. Strong. He could handle it. Dean didn't have to worry about breaking him. They made their way carefully out of the room and down the hall, Sam offering him support so he didn't just fall on his face._

_Signing out if the hospital was surprisingly easy. All he had to do was go up to the main desk for that wing, get verified by a doctor, and he was done, officially discharged. It felt relieving. They walked down the hall slowly and took the elevator, and then had to make a small detour due to the main hall being shut off for reconstruction of part of a wall. It'd gotten damaged somehow, something with a car if he listened to the side conversations of nurses, but he wasn't really concerned. It wasn't like they were walking down the crazy corridor, it was just past some of the major surgery recovery rooms, which were always quiet. _

_Except one. The last room on the hall was busy and loud, with nurses rushing in and out and someone shouting orders. Sam seemed wary of the room, slowing to a stop and quietly suggesting they just go the other way, but Dean's curiosity was piqued. He didn't know why. He typically ignored anything not related to him, but something intrigued him. He brushed Sam off and stepped forward, creeping down the hall as steadily as his legs would allow, and each step he took brought a new sense of dread, sinking further in his stomach as he went. It didn't take long to figure out why. _

_Much to his surprise, in that room was no stranger, but a man he knew well. He looked sickly, pale and dishevelled, and it was honestly the worst thing Dean had seen. Castiel had been better than this when he saw him. He was very confused now, looking between his brother and the lethargic figure. What was the dream? Sam said that Castiel was here, that he was well and that whatever he'd thought up was just a dream, but then what was this? Maybe...maybe it was real? Maybe he really was crazy? He had to check. He took a few steps into the room, his breath catching in his throat when he reached out to touch the man's arm. It certainly felt real. _

_"You weren't supposed to see this," a familiar voice sighed behind him, and Dean wheeled around to see a different Castiel, one very healthy and alive, practically glowing. Jesus, there were _two _of him?! "Love...I need you to come with me. Come on, we need to go."_

_"What is this?" Dean demanded, planting his feet firmly and looking at him levelly. He wasn't playing games anymore. His whole life was topsy-turvy and he couldn't make sense of it. "What's going on? Who is he? Who are _you?"

_Castiel sighed. "I'm Castiel, you know that. And so is he. He's the one you knew, the broken one. Dying. He's a lost cause, Dean. But I'm healthy, thanks to you. So please, let's go. The others are waiting to go home."_

_He shook his head. "No. Not until you explain. What the hell is all of this?"_

_There was a long pause, neither one wanting to budge in the argument, but Dean inevitably won because Castiel always gave too easily. That hadn't changed. He was too sweet to fight. "It's...purgatory, if you will, but more specifically, the point between life and death. It's that whole 'light at the end of the tunnel' business. There's something to signify your past—" he gestured to the hospital bed and then himself "—and then future. There's nothing for you there. Come with me."_

_"What happens to him? Er...you?"_

_"He dies, Dean! That's what I'm saying, there's nothing left! That's a broken man, dying from the inside and you can't fix that. Fallen angels never survive. It's the way it runs."_

_Fallen angels. Castiel had always insisted he was an angel, and Dean believed him now. Something told him it was true. That he wasn't crazy. Angels were supposed to be all heavenly and shit, right? Then how could he die? God couldn't just let him die like that. He was too pure. "There's got to be a way to save him. You're lying to me," he retorted, touching the sleeping Castiel's face. "This is a perfect world, you, Sam, Jess, Bobby...but it's not mine. This, this man is mine. Broken or not. I _will _return to him. I just need to..."_

_Wake up._

Once again, Dean startled awake. The room was much the same as the one he'd just seen, as he noticed when he jerked upright and looked around, but there was no brother. His old man was snoozing in a chair nearby, but that was it. No Meg, no Castiel...it was all the way it was supposed to be. And he was alive, somehow. _Castiel. _It had to be. He had to find him. He'd understand, right?

The only problem was that he couldn't move a damn muscle. He was still, and there were more tubes in his arm that he didn't want to jerk out. His mouth was dry, too, and he quickly found that he couldn't talk. His throat felt raw, like he'd had another one of those tubes down it. Maybe he had. So all he could do was sit there and wait until someone came in or Bobby woke up. That gave him a chance to really notice something; he didn't hurt anymore. The morphine only ever dulled the pain, but now there was just nothing. His head didn't ache, and his body just felt normal for the first time in so long. He was healthy. And alive. He almost hadn't been, but something pulled him back here and here he was.

Dean promised himself two things right there and there: that he was never going to drink again, and that he was going to go to church, at least once. Because although he didn't believe in God, angels were most definitely a real thing. Somebody had to be listening. He had a fresh life now and he was making something of it, as soon as he got out of here—with Castiel, preferably. He could be a caregiver for him or something.

It didn't take long for a nurse to come in, the one he'd grown so used to seeing all this time, and when she saw him awake and looking back at her, her clipboard clattered to the ground and she was rushing over to hug him, waking a very disgruntled Bobby in the process. "Hey, Meg," Dean croaked, cringing at the sound of his own voice. God, he sounded awful, and talking hurt. He'd have to refrain from doing that.

"Dean! We didn't think you were gonna wake up," she replied, leaning back. She looked relieved. Beside her, Bobby looked exactly the same, definitely happy to see him, though his brow was still furrowed in worry. He watched him stand, his knees popping loudly in their familiar way, and walk over to pick up a paper cup and fill it with water. It looked blissful and he tried to reach for it, but his arms wouldn't cooperate, so Meg held it steady for him to drink. It didn't do a whole lot to soothe the burning in his throat, but it was a start.

"What...happened?"

"You...um, well, you were dying. You know that, right?" she asked quietly, and he nodded. "We actually did lose you for a little while there. We saw the alert in the nurses' station's monitors. But by the time we got there, it was all just...fine. The monitors were normal, and we did a couple tests to see what was up, and everything... We don't know how to explain it, Dean. You're completely healthy."

So it wasn't just him feeling good; he _was _good. Seriously, he felt like he could run a damn mile marathon right now, he had so much energy stored up. Too bad his body wouldn't work with him. Maybe when he got out he'd just go running. He used to hate exercise, teasingly called Sam a weirdo for liking it, but he understood the appeal now. Or at least he did at the moment; it may fade away soon enough.

"Hey, I told you...couldn't get ridda me," he teased, smiling. Meg smiled slightly, looking kind of bothered by something now that he looked her over. She was always open with her feelings to him, and he was good at reading people. He knew just what it was. Meg Masters was a stone wall when it came to emotions and people, but there were two exceptions: Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak. And considering that he was here and well... "Where's Castiel?"

She paled at the name, diverting her eyes to Bobby, who looked back at her with the same expression. He didn't like this. Had they taken him back to that facility after Dean "died"? He knew he'd been unstable again; what if it'd gotten worse? Or he could be sick again. He didn't take good care of himself and Dean knew it. It was possible that he'd just resorted to his old ways and things weren't going well again. Either way it went, he had to know. He wanted to go see him, talk to him and figure things out with him. Because Castiel understood all of this. Dean knew he did. "Guys. Castiel."

"Um, Dean..," Meg began, busying herself with the hem of her sleeve, twirling it between her thumb and forefinger. It was like a nervous twitch. "You're not gonna like this, but please, don't freak out. We don't want to push your body, okay?" He nodded, but he couldn't promise a thing. He'd sprint down this hall to reach that man if he had to. "Well, he was with you when you, ah, died. He looked _awful, _Dean. He just stood there and watched us check you over, and it was like once he heard us say you were healthy, he just kinda...collapsed."

Was he exhausted? Had the emotional tax been that draining for him? After everything, it wouldn't be surprising. "He's been sick. Body doesn't work right. He was probably just—" he coughed, cringing at the pain in his throat "—drained."

She shook her head, finally lifting her gaze to lock eyes with him. "Castiel, he's always been very sick, Dean. Remember, I told you about the internal damage, like his body is killing itself?" Yes, he recalled. The doctors had no explanations for it. It was some disease they hadn't heard of before or whatever, and it'd been in kind of a paused state at the time Dean met him. They said it'd been like that for years and likely wouldn't change. "It's gotten worse. I don't know what the cause was, but his body, it's just...it's bad. We can't work on him either, because everything is almost charred, like something burned it, and it just breaks. He's on a strong morphine drip to ease the pain, but I'm not sure how much he feels it."

He was afraid to ask any more questions. He'd just learned that Castiel was dying. Was there anything more? Could it even get worse than it currently was? Oh, yes, it could. Because life and Dean Winchester did not get along very well and it just loved to screw him over. "What do...you mean?"

"He's in a coma, Dean," Meg explained quietly, looking at him sadly and patting his arm. He swore he saw tears in her eyes, welled up but not spilling. His heart sank, and he just knew. "And he's never going to wake up."


	11. Chapter 11

For the next week and a half after hearing the news, Dean never left Castiel's side. The sight of him was heart wrenching; pale, his eyes sunken and surrounded by dark circles, thin once again, and never responsive. He had heard that people who were in comas could still feel and hear the outside world, even if they themselves were unconscious. It was like a dream; they were in a totally different place. Well, he really hoped Castiel's was decent. Maybe a garden, with tons of flowers and bees, like he always wanted. Yeah, that'd be fitting for him. Then he could make all the flower crowns in the world and just watch the world turn.

The room was quiet, disturbed only by the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the push-pull of air in the pump that kept Castiel's lungs moving. Dean looked him over sadly as he shifted in his acclaimed seat right beside the bed, taking one of his cool hands between his palms. "Hey," he murmured, rubbing his thumb along the back of his hand lovingly. "You'd be proud of me, Castiel. I, um, I've been thinking about praying. It's been like, years since I did that. You always said there was someone listening, so I just thought...I thought maybe they could help you if I asked. That's how it works, right?" He paused, as if maybe he'd get a response, but was only answered with silence and the soft _whoosh...whoosh _of the machinery.

Dean swallowed thickly, squeezing his hand a little. "Right. Well, I thought I'd give it a go. The doctors, they, um, said you're looking a little better. You've got more colour. Maybe you just need the rest and you'll heal up just fine. I mean, you promised you'd stay with me and...hey, can you even hear me, I wonder?" He looked down at him, reaching up to touch his cheek, dragging his fingers down his neck and collarbone until he was stopped by the fabric of the shirt he was wearing. He didn't know if he was actually hearing this, or if he was just talking to himself.

Dean looked back to Castiel, brushing his fingers through his dark, perpetually messy hair. He always looked so disorderly, and he'd loved that about the guy. It was fitting for him, someone who was so scrambled in his head. A mess inside and out, his mother would've called him. But he was _Dean's _mess, and he wouldn't change him. "Cas...don't die on me, you hear?" he pleaded softly, feeling his eyes start to sting with the threat of tears as he hunched over to rest it against the mattress. He'd probably pass out again. The nurses never minded his presence here. "I'm not givin' up on you..."

At some point, Dean had apparently fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew it was evening and he was being awoken by a gentle hand resting on his shoulder, a familiar floral scent surrounding him so he'd know who it was without looking. He didn't raise his head but did gently rest his hand on hers, and they stayed just like that for a long moment. "They said he's stabilised for now," Meg informed him quietly; she'd been telling him little bits of information regarding his condition, since he could only gauge so much from appearance. "His vitals are looking a little better."

"That's...that's good," he sighed tiredly, lifting his head finally and bringing up Castiel's hand to rest it against his cheek. "He's got a little colour, have you noticed? And he seems peaceful enough. I haven't seen him so much as stir..." His voice was tense, choked on emotion that he was trying to hold down. He didn't give up on people. He couldn't.

It was like the time Bobby had been hospitalised with pneumonia, back when Dean was about thirteen. He and Sam couldn't stay with their biological father—more than he simply wouldn't let them go back to that awful place—so they stayed home or at the hospital with him. His little brother went to school, mostly because Dean made him, and he spent a lot of the day sitting with the old man, keeping him company while he fought through it all. He'd been unconscious a lot, and for a while, it looked bad. Dean had never allowed himself to give up, though, because if he didn't believe in him, who would?

It was the same now. The nurses held little hope, despite what they told him when they walked in to get Castiel's vitals or change his IV bag, or to clean him up. Meg seemed at least a little hopeful, though he could easily see the scepticism backing that in the way she looked at them. Bobby, he was only sympathetic for Dean, because he knew just how it felt. He'd lost his wife, Karen, a while back. It'd been tough on him, and he didn't want to get his hopes up only to have it turn out worse. Charlie had been devastated by the news; she couldn't stand visiting right now to watch this man die. Dean, though, he had to have hope. He had to falsely think there was a chance that Castiel could wake up and be alright again. Maybe not perfect, but he'd be alive. It'd be enough. He had to keep telling himself that could happen, because if he let himself sink back into depression...it'd never end well.

"Dean, when's the last time you ate something? Or rested property?"

He shrugged. He spent most his time here, sleeping right in this chair only when he had to. He hardly got up to use the restroom or shower, let alone to go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat. The nurses usually brought him a little something to help keep his energy up, a banana or some various fruit. It was good enough. He was too afraid of missing something important by leaving. He had to remain with Castiel, just in case. "I can't leave, Meg. You have to understand that."

She sighed softly, rubbing her hand down his arm. She really did love him and Castiel, it was easy to see. Her disposition towards them was so vastly different from every else. "Yes, I understand," she admitted, "but I don't like it. You need to take care of yourself, too. If I bring you up some food, will you eat?" He nodded, glancing up at her as she smiled. "Good. I'll be back, then." She patted his arm and then vanished out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her and leaving them in silence.

Days went on like this. Castiel never changed aside from little dips or rises in vitals, Dean sat by his bedside and hardly left, and Meg brought him something to eat and kept him company for a little while. Bobby popped in twice to check up one things; he, too, cared about the comatose angel. "I just really like him," he'd said with a shrug, smiling. "He's good for you." And oh, he was. Granted, this recent turn was starting to depress him again, but Castiel had always been a light in his life. Seeing him breathing was still such a relief, and if he rested his ear to his chest, he could hear his heart beating away in there, concrete proof that he was still living. Nothing was ideal, but at least he was here. It was better than nothing at all.

All the time he spent there, he talked. He told his angel stories, blabbed about cars, rambled off things he'd wanted to tell him before, anything to occupy his mind. If filled the silence and made it all feel a little more okay, even if he never got responses. Castiel was listening, he was sure of that. It was what he did. He was quiet and he listened to Dean. He smiled when Dean got excited. He got this awed look in his eyes when he watched the sky. He was ridiculously adorable and very, very sweet. That was Castiel. It was all he'd ever be able to remember him by not this, not him in this bed, dying slowly but surely. This was a nightmare. It had to be.

It was Thursday when it happened, just a normal, spring day. Dean had the window in the room cracked open to let in the breeze, and he was sitting by Castiel's bed, his hand held tight in his. The machines, for once, were quiet, hushed as they worked, the blips slow and the air huffing lazily as it pushed and pulled through the mask. Dean didn't pay it any attention. He watched Castiel, talked to him and assured him he'd be fine, even though all the vitals said otherwise. If he allowed himself to really realise their situation... He had to be hopeful. Even a couple hours later, when the green line finally fell flat, he refused to believe it. Castiel was fighting it, as proven when the line miraculously skipped up again, so he should too. He had to.

* * *

Dean had never been a religious man; he believed only in what he could see or touch, and a vast majority of denominations required an individual to be able to put total faith in something that was invisible and untouchable. So he didn't bother. He'd been to church one time, when he and Sam were both very little and their mother was still around, and at the time it hadn't been half bad. The message meant nothing, but he knew his mom was happy, so he was happy. Over time, though, he realised it was all bullshit, false belief. If there was such a thing as a god, why did he let Dean's dad abuse him? Why'd he let his mom leave them? Things like that weren't supposed to happen. And more recently, what about Sam dying? Or Castiel, one of his _children?_ Yeah, he already had one absentee father; he didn't need another.

But for the first time in forever, he found himself alone in the hospital's chapel, staring forlornly up at the stained glass design from where he'd paused in his pacing. For the past half hour, he'd been praying—pleading, yelling, anything. Dean Winchester did not pray. He'd learned that it didn't work. But it was all he had anymore, all he knew to do to save an angel. He wasn't expecting much. He figured that like Sam, Castiel was just going to pass on despite his pleas. Disappointment was all he'd ever known from this, but here he was, trying it one more time. Asking whoever was listening to please, please come save this man. He didn't care what they wanted in return. Sacrifice? Yeah, sure. His devotion? It'd be hell, but okay. His soul? Take it. It meant nothing without Castiel.

After the incident earlier in the day, the nurses didn't even think he'd make it through that night, because it was really rough now. His vitals were on a rapid decline, and it was only by miracle that he had slipped away yet. He should be there, with him. But he was here, nearly shouting at the ceiling for someone to listen already, that if there was really a god, he should prove it to him by saving this man. He was irritated. He was desperate. And despite everything, he was losing hope, fast. It was foolish to believe in gods, he understood that now. Frustrated, he paused in the middle of the room, glaring up at the stupid, happy stained glass windows depicting all these wonderful things, reaching down to pull off his shoe. It would be vandalism if it broke, but he'd feel better.

"I wouldn't do that," a voice warned from behind him, quiet and calm. Dean wheeled around to face Gabriel, the doctor from the psychiatric ward, dressed casually and striding towards him with his hands in his pockets, vastly different from the neat businessman before. "Vandalism's a crime, you know...though I understand you must be mad. Fallen angels, they're sad things, aren't they?"

Nobody had ever seemed to believe Castiel's bizarre notions that he was a fallen angel, aside from his and Charlie. The others either humoured him for the time they had to spend with him, which was limited to start with, or they ignored him entirely. "Are...are you mocking him?" he asked, narrowing his eyes dangerously. "I swear, I don't care if you _are _a doctor, I'll break your—"

"Easy, tiger," he laughed, and Dean scowled. "I'm not making fun of him, don't worry yourself; on the contrary, I know he's telling the truth, because he's my little brother." As if perfectly timed, the clouds that had been forming over the sky cleared away, allowing more light to filter into the darkened room, casting their shadows up against the far wall. There was him, the taller figure, and just a little off to the side was a shorter man, Gabriel, and the silhouette of wings. "You see, it's kind of a family trait of ours. I mean, I'm far less broken, and a bit higher tier, but still, roughly the same."

"You're an angel." It wasn't a question.

"Archangel, actually," Gabriel corrected with a crooked grin and a shrug. "You know, Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Raguel, etcetera etcetera, the list goes on?" Dean nodded, rolling his eyes. That was grade school shit, even if he wasn't a religion nut or anything. His mother must've had a million angel statuettes sitting around, all with names. "Right. And Castiel, he's my brother."

"He said he didn't have family," Dean said sceptically, narrowing his eyes.

"Most of the others disown him, that's why. Rebellions are frowned upon in Heaven, Dean, just like with the rise of sin. He's a traitor, by all means."

He crossed his arms, taking a step back from the shorter man to keep some comfortable distance. He wasn't menacing or anything, but the aura of power emanating from him was strong enough to warrant unease. "You aren't going to kill him," he warned, recalling Castiel's fear of being found and killed because of what he'd done. Granted, he didn't see why Gabriel would ignore him for so long if he knew he was in the hospital, but maybe it was a weird angel thing? "I swear, if you even look at him, I'll—"

"If I was going to kill him, I'd have done it long ago," Gabriel growled, narrowing his eyes just the same, challenging. Dean backed down. Fighting with angels didn't seem like a grand plan. "Listen. Unlike the others, I don't desire his death. Personally, I believe he was in the right. I've protected him. We warded the entire hospital to hide him here, and we've done everything possible for him."

"You haven't."

"Excuse me?"

"You haven't done everything you can," Dean quipped, shaking his head lightly and retreating to the front pew, plopping down heavily onto the wood with a soft thud. "If you are what you say you are, why can't you fix him? Make him better, like he did for me?"

There was a long pause in which the two simply stared at one another, until the archangel gave a sigh and turned to wander towards the altar. "Because it's different," he replied, and Dean was instantly opening his mouth to ask him how in hell it was different if it was still saving a life. He'd been unworthy of this life; at least Castiel earned it. "Shut up and listen, Dean. What he did for you, that was a sacrifice. Fallen angels have limited grace as it is, and he put all of what was keeping him alive into you. For a guy like me, that's not too much of an issue...but I'm under strict order not to touch him. Besides, it could draw attention..."

"Orders?" What, like, a military? Angels were soldiers, apparently, so it wasn't so outlandish, he supposed, but still. That was the ultimate bullshit. He couldn't save his brother because someone told him no? What was he, seven and being chided by his mom? "Who the hell are you lettin' boss you around and say you can't save your own damn brother?" What he wouldn't have given to save Sam. It pissed him off to know this man had a chance and was not taking it. That was ridiculous.

"It was Castiel's request." No way. "He told me not to bother, because he was dying and didn't want me getting wrapped up in this either," Gabriel continued, watching him in what almost seemed amusement. That was more irritating than half of this stuff combined. Dean stood abruptly and opened his mouth to start telling him everything wrong with that, but he didn't get a chance to talk. "But here's the thing: I can't do it."

"You'll heal him?"

"Yes. Er...no. Well, see, it's not my choice. As to what I do, it's going to be up to you, because you owe him that much and you're the one who will be affected most. It's only fair." That sounded fair enough, though he doubted entrusting a life to him was wise. Nevertheless, he'd take it for a chance. Dean nodded and quietly asked what he could do.

"Well, first off, you could tell me to heal him. Before you jump on that, listen. I can't completely restore him, as that amount of grace may kill him. By healing, I mean I'll remove the corrosive grace from him entirely, making him human, and will repair the internal damage. To an extent, he'll still be sick, and he'll never be mentally sound. He may very well suffer from the things he's done. The second choice is merciful; I can cut his ties with this world, and free his soul so he can be reborn, either as an angel or human, whatever he chooses. He will forget you entirely, and the chances of ever finding him before you die are very, very slim. But he would no longer be in pain or hunted, and can lead his own life. This is all I can do. I know which I would pick for him, but this is your choice."

Neither one sounded especially great, but for once, Dean wanted to be selfish and pick not the one he felt best for Castiel, but what he most wanted to pick. The choice, for him, was an easy one for the first time in his life. "I know what I want to do," he replied, nodding lightly and keeping the strain from his voice. This wouldn't be easy. "So let's get a move on before it's too late**.**


	12. Epilogue

_3 years later..._

After a million and one tests and examinations to ensure he was truly alright, Dean was released from the hospital and his life slowly started easing back into some semblance of normal. He spent some time at home with Bobby, recuperating and coming to terms with everything that had been said and done over the course of roughly five months. He'd tried going to church once, but the appeal was lost on him—it was only the angels he liked, not all the other baggage. A couple weeks in, Dean picked up his old hobby of working on cars again, and even took a job when Bobby offered to let him work with him at his auto shop, like he used to. It was like he'd never left in the first place. The only indications of the time he'd spent in a mental ward with an angel were all the memories.

Time simply seemed to fly by once he was out and back in the game. On days he didn't work, he was always visiting the people important to him, and he'd never leave before nightfall. He had friends now, and he refused to let any of them go. He'd made that mistake once, but then, those people were never exactly the greatest of friends.

"Dean? You with me, son?" Bobby's voice broke into Dean's thoughts and startled him a little, making him jump, which only made the other man laugh. He looked over at him with a sheepish smile, lifting his water to take a long drink. He'd given up alcohol entirely. After the hell he'd gone through, he wasn't wasting this life. "Geez, you're over there daydreamin' and I could'a been saying something important."

"No, you were goin' on about cars again, I was listening," he lied, looking out over the backyard from where they were sitting on the porch steps. For having such a shoddy front yard, literally stockpiled high with rusted scrap cars, Bobby had a wonderful piece of green behind the house, the centre wide open and surrounded by trees, which helped to block a lot of the light when the sun started going down so nobody got blinded. It was good, too, because it made a pretty scene, the light filtering between branches and lining each individual tree.

Beside him, Bobby snorted and shook his head, taking a swig of his beer. He wasn't worried about tempting Dean by now; he knew he wouldn't touch the stuff. "Yeah right," he scoffed, setting the bottle on the lower step with a soft clink. "Daydreamin'...you're a softie. I bet that's got somethin' to do with him, huh?"

Dean nodded, smiling against the edge of his glass as he took another sip and set it back behind him, not wanting to risk knocking it over, which would be his luck. "You love 'im too."

"I do," the older man admitted, stifling a cough. It was rare for him to ever say things like that, and it was easy to see he was embarrassed now, but Dean knew. It was just the way he was, the way he always had been. Bobby nodded towards the yard, and Dean's eyes automatically made their way over in the indicated direction. "Though I gotta say, your fiancé's a strange one."

Out near the tree line, where the masses of wild clover and flowers—and sometimes poison ivy—grew, was Castiel. He was simply standing there, staring upwards, and Dean knew he was smiling. He was always smiling. The guy didn't know how to be anything but happy these days, and he personally loved it because he'd always deserved that. Sure, there were nights things came back and really got to him, and Dean would spend the night trying to comfort him or soothe his paranoid fears, but overall, things were good.

He hadn't been able to kill him the day Gabriel approached him with those choices. It likely would've been for the best, but Dean was a selfish man, and losing him would be the worst thing to ever happen in his life. So he couldn't do it. They'd healed him instead—another medical miracle, according to the astounded doctors—and after a few days, he'd awoken from his coma. Dean was so very happy to have him alive, but there was one more thing he desired to do.

Since Castiel was still technically mentally handicapped, he was not allowed to leave the ward unless he could live with a family member, and Gabriel said he couldn't keep him with him as it would draw too much attention his way. It just wasn't safe. He said he'd falsely reported to the others that Castiel had died that day, so he wasn't actively being hunted anymore, but if his presence was found there when the archangel had visitors, it could be bad. It didn't matter that he was human now. So he remained at the hospital, and Dean visited him nearly every day. It wasn't enough for him.

There was a way around the rules of living with family, as he soon learned. He just had to appeal to a court for guardianship, pretty much just agreeing to be his caretaker, which was something he didn't mind at all. He'd gladly care for him for the rest of his life. Two and a half years were spent fighting to win that custody, and after what seemed a fruitless battle, Dean was beginning to lose hope, and admitted as much to the former angel. He'd been quite surprised to be called back only a couple days later and told that he was now the official caretaker of one Castiel Novak. They'd been overjoyed at the news, and wasted no time getting him out of there. It was a sad thing to abandon Meg and Charlie, but they understood and wished the two of them the best.

And now they were engaged. It'd happened only recently, actually. One month ago, Dean got up the nerve to ask him to marry him. It was legal, so the law couldn't stop them if it was what they wanted. Obviously, he'd said yes. The wedding was going to be in the coming spring, and it'd be simple; just people they knew and a willing preacher, and they'd be set.

Dean looked down at the silver band around his ring finger, tracing his name over the foreign symbols etched into it. It'd been his idea for the simple silver, but Castiel had been the mastermind behind the engravings. They were names—his and Castiel's, each having the other's name on their band—in Enochian, the apparently official language used by heavenly beings. For good measure, Dean had added a little protection symbol on the inside of the rings, to help settle his fiancé's paranoia a little further. They were truly beautiful things, and he swore he'd never take it off, or if he did, for work or something, it'd go on a chain around his neck until he could return it to his hand.

"He's precious," he sighed happily, slowly pushing himself to his feet and straightening up to stretch his back, though there wasn't a need. No part of him hurt these days. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Dean called out to him. "Castiel!" The man perked up instantly, and he smiled. "Come here!" He stood and watched him reach down to set something on the ground or to pick something up, lingering a moment before he came trotting over. Dean told him not to run all the time, but since he had the freedom now, he hardly listened.

Castiel was winded when he got to him, his cheeks flushed pink as he panted for breath, but he seemed happy, looking up at him expectantly and adoringly all at the same time. Dean laughed softly and reached out to ruffle his hair. "What're you doin' out there, baby?" he asked, genuinely curious over what had him so infatuated over by the trees.

"I saw a butterfly," he panted in response, resting his hands on one of his sides. That was a little worrisome. Castiel's body took every little thing much harder than a normal person's, due to all the damage it'd retained before. It was sensitive to the elements. "It was stuck in a web, so I got it out, and it flew away."

"You really are too precious," Dean murmured, pulling him into his arms and hugging him tightly, but not too tightly so he could still breathe easily enough. "Hey, you do know I told you no running, right? Look, you're all winded."

"But it's fun," Castiel complained against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. For someone who'd been such an important and impressive angel, he sure had developed a childish side. It was cute. "I can actually do it now, you know?"

Dean leaned back to nod and smile down at him. Without that IV, he could do so much more. He understood the want to do all the things he couldn't; Dean himself had run a couple miles the first month he was back on his feet. But he had been completely healthy. It was a little different. "Well...okay, I suppose it's fine, but you gotta promise not to overdo it. I don't want you hurting yourself."

His fiancé rolled his eyes and smiled. "You worry too much," he sighed, leaning up to kiss him quickly. "I love you." Dean blushed.

"Yeah, well...I love you too." He stepped back from him and laced their hands together, Castiel's ring cool against his palm. He tugged him towards the house, ignoring the sly grin Bobby was giving them. "Come on, you doof. Let's go get your medicine."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hey, guys! Thanks for sticking with me on this long, epic journey. This is by far the best piece I've written and it took me a solid five or so months to get the whole thing done, let alone the time it took to post it here and on Ao3! I hope you enjoyed this story in the long run, despite all the cliff hangers and twists! :) Feel free to review and let me know what you thought! I'm already playing with a few new ideas, so the feedback will certainly help me get something else out in a timely manner. Thank you again for toughing it out, and I love you all! :)


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